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THE 


lilTJ^RARY   REMAINS 


OF    THE    LATD 


HENRT    NEELE: 

AUTHOR   OF   THE  «  K03IANCE   OF  KlSTOltY,''  ETC. 


CONSISTING    OF 


LECTURES  ON  ENGLISH  POETRY, 
TALES, 

AIsP  OTHER  MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES, 
IN  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


^'ruils  01"  a  genial  iiunii,  and  glorious  iiuuii, 
A  deathless  part  of  liiiii  vviio  died  too  soon. 

Lord  Bvron'3  Monody  on  Suekidan. 


I'BLVTKD  BY  J.  S,-  ./.  HJiRPER,  8J  CLIFh-ST. 

SOLD  by  COLLINS  AND  HANNAY,  COLLINS  AND  CO.,  W.  B.  GILLEY,  (i.  AND  C. 
AND  11.  CARVILL,  WHITE,  GALLAGHER,  AND  WHITE,  O.  A.  KOORBACH,  E. 
BLISS,  W.  BURGESS,  JR.,  AND  D.  FELT  ; — PHILADELPHIA,  CAREY,  LEA, 
AND  CAUEY,  AND  J.  QUIGG  ; — ALBANY,  O.  STEELE. 

1829. 


VK 


\  >^ 


INTRODUCTIOSr. 


The  present  volume,  like  almost  every  other  posthu- 
mous publication,  has  to  solicit  its  readers'  indulgence 
towards  those  unavoidable  inaccuracies,  for  which  he 
;vho  alone  could  have  corrected  them,  is  no  longer  re- 
sponsible. The  hand  that  traced  the  following  pages 
now  moulders  in  the  grave  ;  the  wreath  which  should  have 
garlanded  the  poet's  brow,  is  now  twined  around  his 
sepulchre  ;  and  the  chaplet  of  his  living  fame 

"  Js  iiung  upon  his  hearse,  to  droop  and  wither  there!" 

To  the  last  work  which  will  bear  the  name  of  Henry 
Neele  upon  its  title-page,  it  becomes  an  act  of  duty  to 
prefix  some  few  particulars  of  his  writings,  and  of  their 
author  :  and  though  this  tribute  to  the  departed  comes  late 
and  unavailing  ;  though,  like  the  custom  of  placing  flowers 
in  the  cold  hands  of  the  dead,  praise  now  but  wastes  its 
sweetness  upon  ears  which  can  no  longer  listen  to  its 
melody  ;  still,  to  give  perpetuity  to  the  memory  of  genius 
is  one  of  the  most  grateful  offices  of  humanity  ;  nor  does 
man  ever  seem  more  deserving  of  immortality  himself,  than 
when  he  is  thus  endeavouring  to  confer  it  worthily  upon 
others. 

The  late  Henry  Necle  was  the  second  son  of  a  highly 
respectable  map  and  heraldic  Engraver  in  the  Strand, 
where  he  was  born  January  29th,  1798;  and  upon  his 
Father  removing  to  .Kentish  Town,   was  there  sent  to 


IV  INTRODUCTION. 

School,  as  a  daily  boarder,  and  continued  at  the  same 
Seminary  until  his  education  was  compIet<^d.  At  this 
Academy,  though  he  became  an  excellent  French  scholar, 
jet  he  acquired  «'  little  Latin,  and  less  G  eek  ;"  and,  in 
fact,  displayed  no  very  devoted  application  to,  or  even 
talent  for,  study  of  any  sort :  with  the  exception  of 
Poetry  ;  for  which  he  thus  early  evinced  his  decided  in- 
clination, and  produced  several  specimens  of  extraordi- 
nary beauty,  for  so  juvenile  a  writer.  Henry  Neele's 
inattention  at  School  was,  however,  amply  redeemed  by 
his  unassisted  exertions  when  he  better  knew  the  value  of 
those  attainments  which  he  had  neglected  ;  and  he  sub- 
sequently added  a  general  knowledge  of  German  and 
Italian,  to  the  other  languages  in  wliich  he  became  a  pro- 
ficient. Having  made  choice  of  the  profession  of  the 
Law,  he  was,  upon  leaving  School,  articled  to  a  respecta- 
ble Attorney  ;  and,  after  the  usual  period  of  probationary 
experience,  was  admitted  to  practice,  and  commenced 
business  as  a  Solicitor. 

It  was  during  the  progress  of  his  clerkship,  in  January, 
1817,  that  Henry  Neele  made  his  first  appearance  as  an 
Author,  by  publishing  a  Volume  of  Poems  ;  the  expenses 
of  which  were  kindly  defrayed  by  his  Father  :  who  had 
the  judgment  to  perceive,  and  the  good  taste  to  appreciate 
and  encourage,  the  dawning  genius  of  his  Son.  Though 
this  work  displayed  evident  ;iiarks  of  youth  and  inexpe- 
lience,  yet  it  was  still  more  decidedly  characterized  by  a 
depth  o!  thought  and  feeling,  and  ai  elegance  and  fluf  ncy 
of  versification,  which  gave  the  surest  promises  of  future 
excellence.  Its  contents  were  principally  Lyrical,  and 
the  ill-fated  Collins  was,  avowedl},  his  chief  model.  The 
])ublication  of  this  Volume  introduced  the  young  Poet  to 
Dr.  Nathan  Drake,  Author  of  ''  Literary  Hours, ''^  &.C., 
who.  though  acquainted  with  him  "  onlv  through  the  me- 


INTRODUCTION.  V 

dium  of  his  writings,"  devoted  a  Chapter  of  his  "  Winter 
J^ights,'^  to  a  critical  examiiiati"n  and  eulogy  of  these 
Poems  ;  *•  of  which,"  says  the  Doctor,  "  the  merit  strikes 
me  as  heing  so  consider;. ble,  as  to  justify  the  notice  and 
the  praise  which  I  feel  gratified  in  having  an  opportunity 
of  bestowing  upon  th^m."  And  in  a  subsequent  para- 
graph, he  observes,  that,  "  when  beheld  as  the  very  first- 
lings of  his  earliest  yf-ars,  the\  cannot  but  be  deemed  very 
extraordinary  efforts  indt  ed,  both  of  taste  and  genius  ;  and 
as  conferring  no  slight  celebrity  on  the  author,  as  the  name 
next  to  be  pronounced,  perhaps,  after  those  of  Chatterton 
and  Kirke  White." 

The  duties  and  responsibility  of  active  life,  however, 
necessarily  withdrew  much  o(  bis  attention  from  writing  ; 
yet  though  his  professional  avocations  were  ever  the  ob- 
jects of  bis  first  regard,  he  still  found  frequent  leisure  to 
devote  to  composition.  In  July,  1820  Mr.  Neele  printed 
a  new  Edition  of  his  Odes,  &c.,  with  considerable  addi- 
tions ;  and  in  March,  1823.  published  a  Second  Volume 
of  Dramatic  and  xMiscellaneous  Poetry,  which  was,  by 
permission,  dedicated  to  Miss  Joanna  Baillie,  and  at  once 
establi-shed  its  Author's  claims  to  no  mean  rank  among 
the  most  popular  writets  of  the  day.  The  minor  Poems, 
more  especially  the  Songs  and  Fragments,  were  truly 
beauiiiiil  specimens  of  thi  grace  and  sweetness  of  his 
genius;  an  ■  amply  merited  the  verygeneial  approval  with 
which  they  were  received. 

Ardent  and  enthusiastic  in  all  his  undertakings,  Mr. 
Neele's  Literary  industry  was  now  amply  evidenced  by 
his  frequent  contributions  to  the  "  jMontkhj  Magazine^''' 
and  other  Periodicals  ;  as  well  as  to  the  "  Forget  Me  J^ot,^^ 
and  several  of  its  contemporary  Annuals  ;  the  numerous 
Tales  and  Poems  for  which,  not  previously  j'eprintcd  by 


Vi  INTRODUCTION. 

liimself,  are  all  included  in  the  present  Volume.  Having 
been  long  engaged  in  studying  the  Poets  of  the  olden 
time,  particularly  the  great  masters  of  the  Drama  of  the 
age  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  for  all  of  whom,  but  more  espe- 
cially for  Shaksptare,  he  felt  the  most  enthusiastic  vene- 
ration, he  was  well  qualified  for  the  composition  of  a 
series  of  *'  Lectures  on  English  Poetry,'"  from  the  days  of 
Chaucer  down  to  those  of  Cwwppr,  which  he  completed 
in  the  Winter  of  18'iG  ;  and  deUvered,  first  at  the  Russell, 
and  subsequently  at  the  Western  Literary,  Institution,  in 
the  Spring  of  1827.  T.tese  Lectures  were  most  deci- 
dedly successful ;  and  bi.th  public  and  private  opinion 
coincided  in  describing  them  as  "  displaying  a  high  tone 
of  Poetical  feeling  in  the  Lecturer,  and  an  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  the  beauties  and  bletnishes  of  the  great 
subjects  of  his  criticism."  Although  written  with  rapid- 
ity, and  apparent  carelessness,  they  were  yet  copious, 
discriminative,  and  eloque-nt ;  abounding  in  well-selected 
illustration,  and  inculcating  the  purest  taste.  From  the 
original  Manuscripts  these  compositions  are  now  first  pub- 
lished ;  and  deeply  is  it  to  be  deplored,  that  the  duty  of 
preparing  them  for  the  Press  should  have  devolved  upon 
any  one  but  their  Author  :  since  in  that  case  alone,  could 
the  plan  which  he  had  evidently  proposed  to  himself  have 
been  fully  completed  ;  and  where,  in  many  instances, 
his  intentions  can  now  but  be  conjectured  only,  from  the 
traces  of  his  outline,  his  design  wouM  then  have  been 
filled  up  to  its  entire  extent,  and  harmonized  in  all  its  pro- 
portions of  light  and  shadow. 

In  the  early  part  of  1S27  Mr.  Neele  published  a  new 
Edition  of  his  Poems,  collected  into  two  Volumes  ;  and 
in  the  course  of  the  same  year  produced  his  last  and 
greatest  Work,  the  "  Romance  of  English  History"  which 
was  dedicated,   by   permission,    to   His  Majesty ;    and 


introduction;.  vu 

though  extending  to  three  Vohimes,  and,  from  its  very 
nature,  requiring  much  antiquarian  research,  was  com- 
pleted in  little  more  than  six  months.  Flattering  as  was 
the  very  general  eulogium  which  attended  this  publica- 
tion, yet  the  voice  of  praise  was  mingled  with  the  warn- 
ings of  approaching  evil ;  and,  like  the  lightning  which 
melts  the  sword  within  its  scabbard,  it  is  but  too  certain 
that  the  incessant  labour  and  anxiety  of  mind  attending 
its  completion,  were  the  chief  sources  of  that  fearful  ma- 
lady which  so  speedily  destroyed  him, 

"  'Twas  his  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 

And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  him  low  ; 
So  the  struck  Eagle,  stretch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  ol  luds  to  soar  again, 
Vievv'd  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
Which  wing'd  the  shaft  that  quiver'd  in  his  heart ! 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel 
He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impeli'dthe  steel ; 
"While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm'd  his  nest. 
Drank  the  last  hfe-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast !" 

Of  the  work  itself,  which  comprises  a  series  of  Tales, 
founded  on  some  Romantie  occurrences  in  every  reign, 
from  the  Conquest  to  the  Reformation,  it  is  difficult  to 
speak  accurately.  The  subject,  excepting  in  its  general 
outlines,  was  one  to  which  Mr.  Neele  was  confessedly  a 
stranger ;  and  as  he  had  to  search  for  his  materials 
through  the  obscure  Chronicles  of  dry  antiquity,  and  ac- 
tually to  "  read  up"  for  the  illustration  of  each  succeed- 
ing narrative,  his  exertions  must  have  been  equally  toil- 
some and  oppressive  ;  and  the  instances  of  haste  and 
inaccuracy,  which,  it  is  to  be  regretted,  are  of  such  fre- 
quent occurrence,  are  thus  but  too  readily  accounted  for. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  Tales  are,  in  general,  deeply  in- 
teresting and  effective ;  the  leading  historical  personages 
all  characteristically  distinguished ;  and  the  dialogue, 
though  seldom  sufficiently  antique  for  the  perfect  vraisem- 


Viii  JxNfKODUCTlON. 

hlance  of  History,  is  lively  and  animated.  The  illustra- 
tions of  each  reign  are  preceded  by  a  brief  chronolo- 
gical summary  of  its  principal  events ;  and  amusement 
and  information  are  thus  must  happily  and  inseparably 
united. 

The  "  Romance  of  History''^  was  very  speedily  reprinted 
in  a  Second  Edition,  and  one  Tale,  "  Blanche  of  Bourbon,'' 
(inserted  at  page  167  of  this  Volume,)  was  written  for  its 
continuation  ;  as  Mr.  Neele  would  most  probably  have 
prepared  another  series  ;  though  it  was  the  Publisher's 
original  intention  that  each  Country  should  be  illus- 
trated  by  a  different  Author. 

With  the  mention  of  a  new  edition  of  Shakspeare's 
Plays,  under  the  superintendence  of  Mr.  Neele  as  Editor, 
for  which  his  enthusiastic  reverence  for  the  Poet  of  "  all 
time,"  pecuharly  fitted  him,  but  which,  for  the  want  of 
patronage,  terminated  after  the  publication  of  a  very  few 
Numbers,  closes  the  record  of  his  Literary  labours,  and 
hastens  the  narration  of  that  "  last  scene  of  all,"  which 
laid  him  in  an  untimely  grave.  All  the  fearful  details  of 
that  sad  event  it  were  too  painful  to  dwell  upon ;  and  if 
the  curtain  of  obhvion  even  for  a  moment  be  removed,  it 
is  to  weep  over  them  in  silence,  and  close  it  again  for 
ever.  Henry  Neele  fell  by  his  own  hand  ;  the  victim  of 
an  overwrought  imagination  : — 


"  Like  a  tree, 
Tliat,  ividi  the  weight  of  its  own  golden  fruitage, 
Is  bent  down  to  the  dust." 


Un  the  morning  of  Thursday,  February  7th,  1S2», 
when  he  had  scarcely  passed  his  thirtieth  birth-day,  he 
was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  with  but  too  positive  evidences 


INTRODUCTION.     '  IX 

of  self-destruction.  The  unhesitating  verdict  of  the  Coro- 
ner's Inquest  was  Insanity,  as  he  had  exhibited  unques- 
tionable symptoms  of  derangement  on  the  day  preceding. 
And  thus,  in  the  very  Spring  of  life,  with  Fame  and  For- 
tune opening  their  brightest  views  before  him,  he  perished 
under  the  attacks  of  a  disease,  from  which  no  genius  is  a 
defence,  and  no  talent  a  protection  ;  which  has  numbered 
among  its  victims  some  of  the  loftiest  Sfiriis  of  human- 
ity, and  blighted  the  proudest  hopes  that  ever  waked  the 
aspirmgs  of  ambition. — 

"  Breasts,  to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling  given, 
Bear  hearts  electric,  charged  with  fire  from  Heaven, 
Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn. 
By  clouds  surrounded,  and  on  whirlwinds  borne. 
Driven  o'er  the  lowering  atmosphere  that  nurst 
Tlioughts  which  have  turn'd  to  thunder,  scorch  and  burst !" 

In  person,  Mr.  Neele  was  considerably  below  the  mid- 
dle stature  ;  but  his  features  were  singularly  expressive, 
and  his  brilliant  eyes  betokened  ardent  feeling  and  vivid 
imagination.  Happily,  as  it  has  now  proved,  though  his 
disposition  was  in  the  highest  degree  kind,  sociable,  and 
affectionate,  he  was  not  married.  His  short  life  passed, 
indeed,  almost  without  events  ;  it  was  one  of  those  ob- 
scure and  humble  streams  which  have  scarcely  a  name  in 
the  map  of  existence,  and  which  the  traveller  passes  by 
without  inquiring  either  its  source  or  its  direction.  His 
retiring  manners  kept  him  comparatively  unnoticed  and 
unknown,  excepting  by  those  with  whom  he  was  most  in- 
timate ;  and  fiom  their  grateful  recollection  his  memory 
will  never  be  effaced,  lit'  was  an  excellent  son  ;  a  ten- 
der brother  ;  and  a  sincere  friend.  He  v/as  beloved  most 
by  those  who  knew  him  best ;  and  at  his  death,  left  not 
one  enemy  in  the  world. 

Of  his  varied  talents  this  posthumous  Volume  will  afford 

B 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

the  best  possible  estimate  ;  since  it  includes  specimens 
of  nearly  every  kind  of  composition  which  Mr.  Neele 
ever  attempted.  The  Lectures  will  amply  evidence  the 
nervous  eloquence  of  his  Prose ;  and  the  grace  and  ten- 
derness of  his  Poetry  are  instanced  in  almost  every  stanza 
of  his  Verse.  Still,  with  a  mind  and  manners  so  pecu- 
liarly amiable,  and  with  a  gayety  of  heart,  and  playfulness 
of  wit,  which  never  failed  to  rouse  the  spirit  of  mirth  in 
whatever  society  he  found  himself,  it  is,  indeed,  difficult 
to  account  for  the  morbid  sensibility  and  bitter  discontent, 
which  characterize  so  many  of  his  Poems  ;  and  which 
were  so  strongly  expressed  in  a  contribution  to  the  "  For- 
get Me  J^or  for  1826,  {vide  page  322  of  these  "  Re- 
mains") that  the  able  Editor,  his  friend,  Mr.  Shoberl, 
considered  it  his  duty  to  counteract  its  influence  by  a 
'•  Remonstrance"  which  was  inserted  immediately  after 
it.  This  is  a  problem,  however,  which  it  is  now  impossi- 
ble to  solve  ;  and,  with  a  brief  notice  of  the  present  work, 
this  Introduction  will,  therefore,  at  once  be  closed. 

The  following  pages  contain  all  the  unpublished  Manu- 
scripts left  with  Mr.  Neele's  family  ;  as  well  as  most  of 
those  Miscellaneous  Pieces  which  were  scattered,  very 
many  of  them  anonymously,  through  various  Periodicals, 
several  of  which  are  now  discontinued  ;  though  the  Tales 
and  Poems  alluded  to  were  never  printed  in  any  former 
collection  of  his  writings.  From  the  facility  with  which 
Mr.  Neele  wrote,  the  ready  kindness  with  which  he  con>- 
plied  with  almost  every  entreaty,  and  his  carelessness  in 
keeping  copies,  it  is,  however,  highly  probable,  that  nu- 
merous minor  Poems  may  yet  remain  in  obscurity.  It 
would,  indeed,  have  been  easy  to  have  extended  the  pre- 
sent Volume,  even  very  far  beyond  its  designed  limits,  but 
the  failure  of  more  than  one  similar  attempt  was  a  cau- 
tion to  warn  from  the  quicksand  on  which  they  were 


INTRODUCTION,  xi 

wrecked  ;  and  to  contract,  rather  than  to  extend,  the 
boundaries  previously  prescribed.  The  Satire  of  the  Re- 
verend Author  of  "  Walks  in  a  ForesC^  has,  unluckily 
for  its  objects,  been  but  too  frequently  deserved  : — 

"  When  Genius  dies, 
I  speak  what  Albion  knows,  surviving  friends, 
Eager  his  bright  perfections  to  display 
To  the  last  atom,  echo  through  tlie  land 
All  that  he  ever  did,  or  ever  said, 
Or  ever  thought : 

Then  for  his  writings,  search  each  desk  and  drawer, 
Sweep  his  Portfolio,  pubHsh  every  scrap, 
And  demi-sorap  he  peiin'd  ;  beg,  borrow,  steal, 
Each  line  he  scribbled,  letter,  note,  or  card, 
To  order  shoes,  to  countermand  a  hat, 
To  make  inquiries  of  a  neighbour's  cold, 
Or  ask  his  company  to  supper.     Thus, 
Fools  !   with  such  vile  and  crumbling  trash  they  build 
The  pedestal,  on  which  at  length  they  rear 
Their  huge  Colossus,  that,  beneath  his  weight, 
'Tis  crushM  and  ground  ;  and  leaves  him  dropt  aslant. 
Scarce  raised  above  the  height  of  common  men  !" 

Here,  then,  this  Introduction  terminates.  To  those 
who  loved  him  livins:,  and  who  mourn  him  dead,  these 
Remains  of  Henry  Neele  are  dedicated  ;  in  the  assured 
conviction  that  his  Gejiius  will  long  "  leave  a  mark  be- 
hind," and  not  without  a  hope,  that  even  this  slight  Me- 
morial will  serve 

"  To  pluck  the  shining  page  from  vulgar  Time, 
And  leave  it  whole  to  late  Posterity." 


To  develope  tlie  dawnings  of  Genius,  and  to  pursue  the 
progress  of  our  own  National  Poetry,  from  a  rude  origin  and 
obscure  beginnings,  to  its  perfection  in  a  polished  age,  must 
prove  an  interesting  and  instructive  investigation. 

T.  Warton. 

Authentic  History  informs  us  of  no  time  when  Poetry  was 
not  ;  and  if  the  Divine  Art  has  sometimes  sung  its  own  na- 
tivity, it  is  in  strains  which  confess,  while  they  glorify  igno- 
rance. The  Sacred  Annals  are  silent,  and  the  Heathens,  by 
referring  the  invention  of  Verse  to  the  Gods,  do  but  tell  us 
that  the  mortal  inventor  was  unknown, 

"Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine,"  Nov.  IQ28. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

iNTRODnCTION 5 


LECTURES   ON   ENGLISH   POETRY. 


Lecture  the  First,  Introductory  Analysis i 17 

Second,  Epic  and  Narrative  Poetry •  39 

Third,  Diamatic  Poetry 62 

Fourth,  Dramatic  Poetry  continued 90 

Fifth,    Didactic,    Descriptive,    Pastoral,    and    Satirical 

Poetry. 110 

Sixth,  Lyrical  and  Miscellaneous  Poetry 127 


ORIGINAL  TALES,  POEMS,   ETC. 


The  Garter,  a  Romance  of  English  History 147 

Blanche  of  Bourbon,  a  Romance  of  Spanish  History 167 

Shakspeare's  Supernatural  Characters 194 

A  Night  at  the  Mermaid,  an  Old  English  Talc 199 

The  Trekschuit 205 

Hymns  for  Children 2l0 

Epitaphs    212 

Sonnet  on  reading  the  Remains  of  the  late  Henry  Kirke  White  ....  213 

Friendship 214 

Love  and  Beauty 215 

A  Thought  216 

Epigram 216 


\iv  CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS   PROSE   AND   POETRY, 
NOW  FIRST   COLL Et  TED. 

Page 

The  Valley  of  Servoz,  a  Savoyard  Talc 219 

The  Poet's  Dream 22S 

Totteridgf  Priory,  a  Reverie  in  Hertfordshire 245 

The  St.akspearean  Elysium 251 

The  Dinner  of  the  Months 257 

Every  Day  nt  Breakfast 261 

A   Young  Family 2Gb 

The  Comet    274 

The  Maf!;iriaii's  Visiter     204 

The  Houri,  a  Persian  Tale 300 

Stanzas    310 

Lines  written  after  visiting  a  scene  in  Switzerland 310 

The  Crusaders'  Song  312 

A  Serenade 313 

Similitiiiies    ^ 314 

The  Return  of  the  Golden  Age 31  !> 

Questions  Answered 316 

Time's  Changes 317 

Such  Things  were 319 

The  Heart 320 

Madonna 321 

Song 321 

Stanzas 322 

The  Comet    324 

Stanzas • 325 

Thoughts 325 

What  is  Life  ? • 326 

Time 327 

Lore  and  Sorrow 328 

The  Natal  Star,  a  Dramatic  Sketch 329 

L'Amorc  Dominatorc 333 

Goodrich  Castle 333 

The  Captives'  Song • 335 

Stanzas 336 

Mount  Carmel,  a  Dramatic  Sketch  from  Scripture  History 337 

\  Royal  Requiem 341 


LECTURES 


OK 


ENGLISH   POETRY, 

UKLlVKUEn    AT    THE    RUSSELL   INSTITUTtON,  IN     THE 
MONTHS  OF    JIAKCn,    APRIL,    AND    MAY,     1827. 


'  1 


Hail,  Bards  triumphant !  born  in  liappier  days 
Immortal  heirs  of  universal  praise  ! 
Whose  honours  with  increase  of  ages  grow, 
As  streams  roll  down,  enlarging  as  they  flow  ; 
Nations  unborn  your  mighty  names  shall  sound, 
And  Worlds  applaud  that  must  not  yet  be  found. 

Pope. 


LECTURES 


Olf 


ENGIilSM  POETRY. 


,      LECTURE  THE  FIRST. 

INTRODUCTORY    ANALYSIS. 

General  Historical  Summary  : — The  Age  of  Edward  the 
Third  : — Chaucer  : — The  Ages  of  Henry  the  Eighth  and 
Elizabeth  : — Coincidences  in  the  Literary  Histories  of  Eng- 
land and  Spain  : — The  Age  of  Charles  the  First: — Milton: 
— The  New  School  of  Comedy  : — The  Age  of  Queen  Anne  : 
— Compared  with  the  Age  of  Elizabeth  : — The  Didactic 
Writers  : — Improvement  in  the  Public  Taste  : — Modern 
Authors  to  the  time  of  Cow[)er. 

It  may  appear  son:iewhat  presumptuous  to  hope  to  in- 
terest your  attention,  by  a  series  of  Lectures  upon  English 
Poetry,  after  the  power  and  ability  with  which  the  me- 
chanical and  useful  arts  have  so  recently  been  discussed 
and  explained,  on  the  same  spot,  and  the  wonders  and 
mysteries  of  thf)se  sciences  laid  open,  which  contribute 
so  much  to  the  happiness,  the  comforts,  and  even  the 
necessities,  of  ordinary  life.  In  introducing  poetry  to 
your  notice,  I  am  constrained  to  confess  that  it  is  a  mere 
superfluity  and  ornament.  As  Falstaffsdiid  of  honour,  "  it 
cannot  set  to  a  leg,  or  an  arm,  or  heal  the  grief  of  a  wound; 
it  has  no  skill  in  surgery."  Still,  within  the  mind  of  man 
there  exists  a  craving  after  intellectual  beauty  and  sub- 
limity. There  is  a  mental  appetite,  which  it  is  as  neces- 
sary to  satisfy  as  the  corporeal  one.     There  are  maladies 

C 


», 


IS  LECTURES    ON 

of  the  mind  which  are  even  more  destructive  than  those 
of  the  body ;  and  which,  as  the  sound  of  the  sweet  harp 
of  David  drove  the  demon  out  of  Saul,  have  been  known 
to  yield  to  the  soothing  infhience  of  poetry.  The  earhest 
accomplishment  of  the  rudest  and  wildest  stages  of  so- 
ciety, it  is  also  the  crowning  grace  of  the  most  polished 
and  civilized.  Nations  the  most  illustrious  in  arts  and 
arms,  have  also  been  the  most  celebrated  for  their  culti- 
vation of  letters  ;  and  when  the  monuments  of  those  arts, 
and  the  achievements  of  those  arms,  have  passed  away 
from  the  face  of  the  earth,  they  have  transmitted  their 
fame  to  the  remotest  ages  through  the  medium  of  litera- 
ture alone.  The  genius  of  Timanthes  lives  but  in  the 
])ages  of  Pliny  ;  and  the  sword  of  Cajsar  has  been  ren- 
dered imtnortal  only  by  his  pen. 

The  canvass  fritters  into  shreds,  and  the  column  moul- 
ders into  ruin;  the  voice  of  music  is  mute;  and  the 
beautiful  expression  of  sculpture  a  blank  and  gloomy 
void  ;  the  right  hand  of  the  mechanist  forgets  its  cunning, 
and  the  arm  of  the  warrior  becomes  powerless  in  the 
grave  ;  but  the  lyre  of  the  poet  still  vibrates  ;  ages  listen 
to  his  song  and  honour  it :  and  while  the  pencil  of  Apelles, 
and  the  chisel  of  Phidias,  and  the  sword  of  Caesar,  and 
the  engines  of  Archimedes,  live  only  in  the  breath  of  tra- 
dition, or  on  the  page  of  history,  or  in  some  perishable 
and  imperfect  fragment ;  the  pen  of  Homer,  or  of  Virgil, 
or  of  Shakspeare,  is  an  instrument  of  power,  as  mighty 
and  magical  as  when  first  the  gifted  finger  of  the  poet 
grasped  it,  and  with  it  traced  those  characters  which  shall 
remain  unobliterated,  until  the  period  when  this  great 
globe  itself, — 

"  And  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And,  like  an  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind  !" 

The  history  of  the  poetry  of  England  exhibits  changes 
and  revolutions  not  less  numerous  and  remarkable  than 
that  of  its  politics;  and  to  a  brief  general  summary  of 
these,  I  propose  to  confine  myself  in  this  Introductory 
Ijecture.  I  shall  afterwards  take  a  more  detailed  review 
of  the  merits  of  the  individual  authors,  who  distinguished 
themselves  at  various  periods  ;  and  in  drawing  your  atten- 


ENGLISH  POETRi'.  *  ID 

tion  to  particular  passages  in  their  worlds,  I  shall  select 
from  such  writers  as  are  least  extensively  known. 

Englisli  poetry  may  be  said  to  have  been  born  in  the 
reign  of  Edward  the  Third.  The  monkish  rhymes,  the 
Troubadour  partns,  the  metrical  rotnaiices  of  Thomas  the 
Rhymer,  Piers  riowniaii,  and  others,  and  the  clumsy  trans- 
lations from  tlie  Latin  and  French,  which  were  produced 
prior  to  that  period,  have  but  slender  claims  upon  our  at- 
tention ;  except  as  affording,  by  their  dulness  and  their 
gloom,  a  contrast  to  the  'Xtraordinary  blaze  of  light  which 
succeeded  them,  when  Cliaucer  appeared  in  the  poetical 
hemisphere.  At  that  period  the  eyes  of  all  Europe  were 
turned  towards  England,  who,  perhaps,  never  in  any  age 
more  highly  distinguished  herself.  She  then  produced  a 
monarch  who  was  the  greatest  statesman  and  warrior  of 
his  age,  and  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  the  foundation 
of  many  of  the  most  important  of  the  free  institutions, 
utider  which  we  now  flourish  ;  she  produced  a  divine, 
who  had  the  boldness  to  defy  the  spiritual  and  temporal 
authority  of  Rome,  and  who  struck  the  first  blow  at  that 
colossal  power, — a  blow,  from  the  effects  of  which,  we 
may  say  that  she  has  never  yet  recovered  ;  and  now  she 
produced  a  poet,  of  whom  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  as- 
sert, that  he  was  the  greatest  who  had  then  appeared  in 
modern  Europe. 

Chaucer's  genius  was  vast,  versatile,  and  original.  He 
seems  to  have  been  deeply  versed  in  classical,  in  French,  and 
in  Italian  literature,  as  well  as  in  the  sciences, so  far  as  they 
were  known  in  his  day,  and  in  the  polemical  and  theological 
questions  which  were  then  the  favourite  and  fashionable 
studies.  His  knowledge  of  human  nature  was  profound. 
The  knights,  the  monks,  the  Reves,  the  prioresses,  which 
he  has  painted,  have  long  since  disappeared  ;  but  wherever 
we  look  around,  we  recognise  the  same  passions,  and  feel- 
ings, and  characters ;  the  features  remain,  although  the 
costume  is  altered  ;  maimers  vary,  but  man  remains  the 
same  :  human  nature,  however  changeable  in  fashion, 
opinion,  and  outward  appearance,  is  immutable  in  its  es- 
sence. Such  as  is  the  monarch  on  his  throne,  such  is 
the  peasant  in  his  cottage  ;  such  as  was  the  ancient  Egyp- 
tian uandering  among  the  pyramids,  such  is  the  modern 
Englishman  making  a  tour  of  Europe,  and  the  poet  who 


20  LECTURES    ON 

"  dips'' — as  Garrick  said  of  Sliakspeare — "  his  pencil 
in  the  human  heart,"  will  produce  tbrms  and  colours,  the 
truth  and  beauty  of  which  will  be  recoi^nised,  wherever 
such  a  heait  beats.  Chaucer's  versatility  was  most  ex- 
traordinary. No  English  poet,  Sliakspeare  alone  ex- 
cepted, exhibits  such  striking  instances  of  comic  and 
tragic  powers,  united  in  the  same  mind.  His  humour 
and  wit  are  of  the  brightest  and  keenest  character  ;  but 
then  his  pathos  is  tremendous,  and  his  descriptive  powers 
are  of  the  highest  order. 

His  diction  and  versification  must  be  looked  at  with  re- 
ference to  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and  not  to  the  splen- 
did models  which  we  now  possess.  He  has  been  much 
censured  by  modern  critics  for  a  too  liberal  use  of  French 
and  Norman  v/ords  in  his  poems ;  hw  Mr.  Tyrwhitt,  in 
his  learned  dissertation  on  the  subject,  has  shown  most 
satisfactorily,  that,  as  compared  with  his  contemporaries, 
his  diction  is  remarkably  pure  and  vernacular  ;  and  Spen- 
ser has  emphatically  called  him  "a  well  of  English  unde- 
filed."  His  verses  have  also  been  said  to  be  imperfect, 
and  sometimes  to  consist  of  nine  syllables,  instead  often. 
This  is,  I  think,  an  equally  unfounded  accusation  ;  and, 
if  the  reader  will  only  take  the  precaution  to  make  vocal 
the  e  final,  whenever  he  meets  with  it,  he  will  find  few 
lines  in  Chaucer  which  are  not  harmonious  and  satisfac- 
tory to  the  ear, 

I  have,  perhaps,  spoken  more  at  large  of  tlie  merits  of 
Chaucer  than  is  consistent  with  my  plan  in  this  Introduc- 
tory Lecture,  but  his  writings  form  so  important  an  era 
in  the  history  of  English  poetry,  that  1  feel  myself  justi- 
fied in  making  an  exception  in  his  favour.  Chaucer  died, 
and  left  nothing  that  resembled  him  behind  him.  Those 
authors  who  formed  what  is  called  the  School  of  Chau- 
cer, are  in  no  particular  entitled  to  the  name,  excepting 
that  they  professed  and  entertained  the  profoundest  vene- 
ration for  their  illustrious  master.  Gower,  although 
senior  both  in  years  and  in  authorship  to  Chaucer,  and 
although  he  claims  the  latter  as  his  scholar, — 

"  Crete  well  Chaucer,  when  ye  mete 
As  my  disciple  and  poete," 

did  not  begin  to  write  English  poetry^  until  after  him,  and 


ENGLISH    FOETRV,  -  J^l 

is  theretore  placed  in  his  school.  He  is  a  tame  and 
mediocre  writer,  but  every  page  displays  his  erudition, 
and  shows  that  he  possessed  all  the  learning-  and  ucconi- 
plishments  of  iiis  age.  Neither  can  much  be  said  in  ia- 
vour  of  Occleve,  or  of  Lydgate.  The  turmer,  peiiiaps 
possessed  more  imagination,  and  the  latter  was  the  better 
versifier ;  but  both  are  remembered  only  in  the  absence 
of  superior  talent. 

From  the  death  of  Chaucer  to  the  middle  of  the  reign 
of  Henry  the  Eighth,  the  history  of  English  literature  is 
one  dull  and  gloomy  blank.  The  civil  disturbances  by 
which  the  kingdom  was  then  convulsed,  are  probably  the 
principal  cause  of  this.  While  men  were  tremblinu  for 
their  lives,  they  vi^ere  not  likely  to  occupy  themselves 
greatly  either  in  the  production,  or  the  perusal,  of  litera- 
ture. The  sceptre  first  passed  from  the  strenuous  grasp 
of  Edward  the  Third  into  the  leeble  hands  ol'  his  grand- 
son. Then  came  the  usurpation  of  Boliitgbroke  ;  the 
rebellion  of  Northumberland  ;  and  afterwards  the  long 
and  bloody  wars  of  the  roses.  Henry  the  Eighth  mounted 
the  throne  with  an  undisputed  title.  He  himself  pos- 
sessed some  literary  tah-nt,  and  made  a  show — probably 
in  emulation  of  his  illustrious  contem})orary  Francis  of 
France — of  patronising  letters  and  the  arts.  Hence 
his  reign  was  adorned  by  the  productions  of  some  men  of 
real  taste  and  genius,  particularly  by  those  of  Lord  Sur- 
rey, and  Sir  Thomas  VVyatt.  Neither  of  them  were  men 
of  very  conimanding  powers,  but  they  were  both  elegant 
and  accomplished  writers,  and  did  much,  at  least  to  refine 
our  English  versifieation.  Surrey  is  also  distmguished  as 
the  first  writer  of  narrative  blank  verse  m  our  language, 
although  he  principally  wrote  in  rhyme.  Lord  Vaiix  was 
also  a  very  elegant  lyrical  writer,  and  some  verses  from 
one  of  his  songs  are  quoted  by  Shaksf-eare  in  the  giave- 
digging  scene  in  "  Hamlet^  L.)rd  Buckhurst  was — in 
conjunction  with  Thomas  Noiton, — the  author  of  the  first 
Knglish  tragedy,  '^  Gorboduc  ;"  a  heavy,  cumbrous  per- 
formance, of  but  little  value,  excejjt  as  a  curious  pi(;ce  of 
antiquity.  The  noble  |)oet's  fame  is  nuich  better  sup- 
ported by  his  "  Induction  to  the  Mirror  oj  JMagistrates"  a 
production  of  great  power  and  originality.  The  tyran- 
nical temper  of  the  sovereign,  however,  soon  became 


22  LECTURES    ON 

manifest ;  and  together  with  the  contests  between  the  pa- 
])i.st.s  and  the  rctbrnit^rs,  divertetl  the  attention  of  the 
nation  f'rnm  literature.  The  noblest  and  the  best  were 
seen  ilailv  led  t-;  the  scat^'old  ;  and,  among  thein,  Surrey, 
the  accomplished  poet  whom  1  liav"  just  mentioned.  The 
barbarous  tends  siirred  up  by  lioliticai  and  polemical  ani- 
mosity, which  now  aj?ain  deluged  the  nation  with  blood, 
did  not  subside  until  Elizabeth  ascended  the  throne.  The 
reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  is  the  most  illustrious  period  in 
the  literary  history  of  modern  Europe.  Much  has  been 
said  of  the  ages  of  Leo  the  Tenth,  of  Louis  the  Four- 
teenth, and  of  Queen  Anne,  but  wi-  are  prepared  to  show 
that  the  literary  trophies  of  the  first  mentioned  period, 
are  more  splendid  and  important,  than  those  of  all  the 
other  three  united.  We  are  not  alluding  merely  to  what 
passed  in  our  own  country.  The  superiority  of  the  lite- 
rary elforts  of  that  age  to  all  the  productions  of  English 
genius  before  or  since,  is  too  trite  a  truism  to  need  our 
advocacy.  But  it  is  not  so  generally  known,  or,  at  least, 
remembt;red,  that  during  the  same  period  the  other  na- 
tions of  Euro[)e  protiuced  their  master  spirits ;  and 
that  Tasso,  Camoens,  and  Cervantes,  were  contemporary 
with  Shakspeare.  Weigh  these  four  names  against  those 
of  all  who  have  ever  written,  since  the  revival  of  learn- 
ing, to  the  present  time,  and  the  latter  will  be  found  to  be 
but  as  dust  in  the  balance.  The  accomplished  scholars 
and  elegant  writers  who  adorned  the  courts  of  Leo,  of 
Louis,  and  of  Anne,  enjoy  and  deserve  their  fame  ;  but 
they  must  not  be  put  in  competition  with  the  mighty  ge- 
niuses, who  each,  as  it  were,  made  the  literature  of  their 
respective  countries  ;  whose  works  are  columns  "  high 
o'er  the  wrecks  of  Time  that  stand  sublime  ;"  and  whose 
reputations  are  independent  of  all  the  adventitious  advan- 
tages of  schools  and  courts,  and  are  the  self-reared  monu- 
ments of  great  and  original  minds,  which  no  time  shall 
ever  be  able  to  disturb. 

But  though  we  have  named  only  the  four  master  spirits 
of  that  period,  yet  there  is  a  troop  behind,  more  nume- 
rous than  those  which  were  shown  in  Banqud's  glass. 
Spensei-,  Ben  Jonson,  Fletcher,  Massinger,  Lope  de  Vega, 
Calderon,  Marino,  these  are  bright  names,  which  cannot 
be  lost,  even  in  the  overwhelming  splendour  of  those 


ENGLISH    POETRY,  23 

which  we  have  already  mentioncfl.  In  Spain  and  Eng- 
land, literature,  and  especially  dramatic  literatuK ,  flour- 
ished simultaneouvly ;  and  a  similarity  of  tasrt-  and  g<'nius 
apptars  to  have  pervaded  both  nations.  The  same  bold 
and  irregular  ilights  of  tancy,  the  same  negl>  ct  of  all 
classical  rules  of  composition,  more  than  atoned  for  b}  the 
same  original  and  natural  beauties  of  thought  and  diction  ; 
and  the  same  less  venial  violations  of  time,  place,  and 
costume,  characterise  both  the  Castiliai-  and  the  English 
muses.  There  appears  then  to  have  existed  an  inter- 
course of  literature  and  intellect  between  the  two  na- 
tions, the  interruption  of  which  is  ntuch  to  be  deplored. 
The  Spanish  language  was  then  much  studied  in  England  ; 
Spanish  plots  and  scenery  were  chosen  by  many  of  our 
dramatists,  and  their  dialogues,  especially  those  of  Jon- 
son  and  Fletcher,  were  thickly  interspersed  with  Spanish 
phrases  and  idioms.  The  marriage  of  Philip  and  Mary 
might  probably  conduce  greatly  to  this  effect ;  though  the 
progress  of  the  reformation  in  England,  and  the  strong 
political  and  coriimercial  hostility,  which  aherwards  ex- 
isted between  the  two  nations,  appear  to  have  put  an  end 
to  this  friendly  feeling.  English  literature  then  began  to 
be  too  closely  assimilated  to  that  of  France,  and  sustained, 
in  my  opinion,  irreparable  injury  by  the  connection. 
Spain  appears  to  be  our  more  natural  ally  in  literature  ; 
and,  it  is  a  curious  fact,  that  after  the  poetry  of  both  na- 
tions bad  for  a  long  period  been  sunk  in  tameness  and 
mediocrity,  it  should  at  the  same  time  suddenly  spring  into 
pristine  vigour  and  beauty,  both  in  the  island  and  in  the 
peninsula;  for  Melandez,  Quintana,  and  Gonsalez  are 
the  worthy  contemporaries  of  Byron,  Wordsworth,  Scott, 
and  Moore. 

Two  great  authors  of  each  nation,  have  also  exhibited 
some  curious  coincidences,  both  in  the  structure  of  their 
minds,  and  in  the  accidents  of  their  lives.  Ben  Jonson 
fought  in  the  English  army  against  the  Spaniards  in  the 
Netherlands,  and  Lope  de  Vega  accompanied  the  Spanish 
Armada  for  the  invasion  of  England.  Shakspeare  and 
Cervantes,  the  profoundest  masters  of  the  human  heart 
which  the  modern  world  has  produced,  were  neither  of 
them  mere  scholars,  shut  up  in  the  seclusion  of  a  study  ; 
both  were  busily  engaged  in   active   life,  although   one 


24  LECTURES    ON 

merely  trod  the  mimic  stage,  and  the  other  acted  a  part 
on  the  world's  great  theatre  ;  both  were  afflicted  with  a 
bodily  infirmity ;  Shakspeare  was  lame,  and  Cervantes 
had  lost  a  hand  ;  and,  a  still  stranger  coincidence  remains, 
for  both  died  upon  the  same  day.  If  it  be  indeed  true 
then,  that, — 

"  they  do  not  err 
Who  say  that  when  the  poet  dies 
Mute  Nature  uiourns  her  worshipper, 
And  celebrates  his  obsequies,'' — 

how  shall  we  be  able  to  estimate  the  grief  which  pervaded 
Spain  and  England,  on  the  12th  of  April,  1616  ? 

Elizabeth  was  unquestionably  the  first  and  most  impor- 
tant person  of  the  age  in  which  she  lived  ;  and,  although 
she  was,  as  Voltaire  has  somewhere  called  her,  "  Mistress 
of  only  half  an  island,"  still  she  managed  to  humble  the 
gigantic  power  of  Spain  ;  to  afford  important  succour  to 
Henry  the  Fourth  of  France  ;  and  to  lay  the  foundation 
of  that  rnarititne  superiority,  which  has  given  England, 
insignificant  as  it  is  in  extent  and  population,  so  important 
an  influence  over  the  destinies  of  the  globe.  But  be- 
sides tnis,  she  was  a  munificent  and  discriminating  patron 
of  letters  and  literary  men  ;  was  herself  an  accomplished 
linguist ;  and  according  to  Puttenham,  "  a  poetess  of  tol- 
erable pretensions."  Her  court  was  thronged  with  men 
of  letters  and  of  genius.  Her  chancellor  was  the  immor- 
tal Bacon,  the  father  of  modern  philosophy  ;  among  her 
most  distinguished  captains,  were  Raleigh  and  Sidney; 
among  her  peers,  were  Lord  Brooke,  Vere,  Earl  of  Ox- 
ford, and  Herbert,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  all  distinguished 
poets ;  among  her  prelates  and  dignified  divines,  were 
Hali,  the  first  and  best  of  English  satirists,  and  Donne, 
the  founder  of  what  has  been  called  the  metaphysical 
school  of  poetry ;  and  whatever  honours  she  distributed, 
lawn  sleeves,  or  robes  of  ermine,  coronets,  or  badges  of 
knighthood,  the\  were  rarely,  if  ever,  given  without  re- 
ference to  the  learning  and  genius  of  the  receiver. 

James  the  First  was  destitute  of  the  taste  and  talent  of 
his  great  predecessor,  but  still  he  was  desirous  of  being 
reputed  a  patron  of  letters ;  and,  by  virtue  of  some  stifii 
pedantic,  and  absurd  productions  of  his  pen,  styled  him- 


ENGLISH    FOETRi.  85 

self  an  author-  Literature  rather  advanced  than  retro- 
graded under  his  rule  ;  and  indeed,  something  like  that 
mighty  engine  which  is  now  of  such  enormous  power, 
puhlic  opinion,  hegan  to  form  in  the  nation  ;  taking  lite- 
rature under  its  protection,  and  thus  rendering  it  less  de- 
pendent, than  heretofore,  upon  the  monarch  and  the 
court.  Of  the  sovereign,  however,  who  sent  Raleigh  to 
the  block,  no  literary  man,  or  lover  of  letters,  can  speak 
with  respect.  The  authors  who  flourished  in  his  reigu 
were  for  the  most  part  those  who  adorned  that  of  Eliza- 
beth. 

The  accession  of  Charles  the  First  seemed  an  auspi- 
cious event  for  the  cause  of  literature,  and  the  arts.  The 
sovereign  was  himself  a  prince  of  much  learning,  and  of 
a  refined  and  elevated  taste.  To  him  this  nation  is  in- 
debted for  the  acquisition  of  the  Cartoons  of  Raphael ; 
he  invited  Vandyke,  Rubens,  Bernini,  and  other  foreign 
artists  into  this  country  ;  was  the  liberal  patron  of  Ben 
.Tonson,  Iniiio  Jones,  and  other  native  poets  and  artists ; 
and,  among  the  crimes  with  which  he  was  charged  by  his 
enemies,  was  one  which,  at  the  present  day,  we  cannot 
judge  to  be  quite  uupardtjuable,  namely, — that  the  volumes 
of  Shakspeare  were  his  companions  day  and  night.  The 
poets  \^o  flourished  in  his  reign,  in  addition  to  those  who 
survived  the  reigns  of  his  predecessors,  although  they  pos- 
sessed not  the  commanding  genius,  and  the  wonderfal  cre- 
ative powers  of  the  bards  of  the  Elizabethan  age, — "  for 
there  were  giants  on  the  earth  in  those  days," — were  yet 
among  the  most  polished  and  elegant  writers  which  the 
nation  has  produced.  The  sweetness  of  their  versifica- 
tion was  not  of  that  tame  and  cloying  nature,  which  the 
imitators  of  Pope  afterwards  introduced  into  our  litera- 
ture ;  smooth  to  the  exclusion  of  every  bold  and  original 
thought. 

The  writings  of  Carew,  Crashaw,  Waller,  Herrick,  and 
Suckling,  sparkling  with  the  most  brilliant  and  original 
ideas,  expressed  in  the  most  elegant  versification,  shine  out 
like  precious  gems  richly  cased.  The  favourite  amuse- 
ment of  this  period  was  the  dramatic  entertainments 
called  masques.  These  were  got  up  at  court  with  an 
extraordinary  magnificence,  which,  we  are  told,  modern 
splendour  never  reached  even  in  thought ;  and  that  the 

D 


26  LECTURES    ON 

taste  in  which  they  were  produced  was  equal  to  the  splen- 
dour, we  may  rest  assured,  when  we  know  that  Ben  Jon- 
sou  commonly  wrote  the  poetry,  Lawes  composed  the 
music,  and  luij^o  Jones  designed  the  decorations.  Had 
Charles  long  continued  to  sway  the  English  sceptre,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  literature  and  the  arts,  but  especially 
the  latter,  would  have  been  materially  advanced.  To 
them  the  estabhshment  of  a  Commonwealth,  whatever  it 
may  have  eilected  for  the  civil  and  religious  liberties  of 
the  country,  gave  a  blow  from  which  they  have  scarcely 
yet  recovered.  The  theatres  were  kept  closed ;  stage 
players  were  considered  impious  and  profane  ;  the  altar- 
pieces  were  torn  down,  and  the  statues  broken  in  our 
cathedrals,  as  idolatrous  and  encouraging  the  image- 
worship  of  the  papists.  Music,  which  was  wont  to  give 
so  solemn  and  impressive  efi'ect  to  the  service  of  the 
church,  was  abolished  as  one  of  the  most  odious  among 
the  abominations  of  Popery  ;  and  Chaucer,  Spenser,  and 
Shakspeare,  were  exiled  from  the  libraries  of  the  orthodox 
to  make  way  for  Withers,  Quarles,  and  Herbert !  Nay;, 
if  we  are  literally  to  believe  the  assertion  of  an  old  au- 
thor, every  thing  which  bore  the  slightest  resemblance  to 
the  popish  symbol  of  the  crucifix  was  held  in  such  detes- 
tation, that  even  tailors  were  forbidden  to  sit  cross*legged  I 
The  king's  paintings,  we  are  told  by  Whitelocke,  were 
sold  at  very  low  prices,  and  enriched  all  the  collections 
in  Europe  ;  and,  but  for  the  tact  and  management  of  Sel- 
den,  the  library  and  medals  of  St.  James's  would  have 
been  put  up  to  auction,  in  order  to  pay  the  arrears  of 
some  regiments  of  cavalry,  quartered  near  London. 
Poets,  and  other  literary  men,  were  not  only  disturbed  in 
their  studies  by  the  clang  of  arms,  but  many  of  them  ex- 
changed the  pen  for  the  sword,  and  mingled  actively  in 
the  contest  which  raged  around  them. 

Still  the  most  stirring  and  turbulent  times  are  not  the 
most  unfavourable  to  the  productions  of  poetry.  The 
muse  catches  inspiration  from  the  storm,  and  genius  rides 
upon  the  whirlwind,  while  perhaps  it  would  only  slumber 
during  the  calm.  Chaucer  wrote  amidst  all  the  irritation 
and  fury  excited  by  the  progress  of  the  reformation  ; 
Spenser  and  Shakspeare,  while  the  nation  was  contend- 
ing for  its  very  existence  agaiuit  the  colossal  power  of 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  27 


8 


pain  ;  and  it  was  during  the  political  and  religious  frenzy 
of  the  times  of  wiiich  we  are  now  speaking,  that  Milton 
stored  Ins  mind  with  those  subhme  imaginings,  which  atter- 
wards  expanded  into  that  vast  masterpiece  of  hunian 
genius,  the  "  Paradise  Losi^  There  can  be  but  little 
doubt  that  whtn  this  lilustiious  poet,  a  man  so  accom- 
plished in  min(i  and  manners,  joined  the  paiiiamentary 
party,  he  made  many  sacrifices  of  taste  and  feeling,  for 
what  he  considered-^whethev  correctly  or  not,  it  is  not 
now  my  province  to  inquire, — the  cause  of  civil  and  reli- 
gious liberty.  Neither,  vulgar  avid  tasteless  as  was  the 
mass  of  that  party,  was  he  without  associates  of  whom 
even  he  had  reason  to  be  proud  : — 

"  Great  men  have  been  among  us,  hands  that  penn'd, 
And  tongues  that  utter'd  wisdom  :   better  none  ; 
The  later  Sydney,  Marvel),  Harrington, 
Young,  Vane,  and  others,  who  call'd  Milton  friend.'* 

In  early  life  he  published  his  charming  "  Comus,'^ 
*'  UJlllegro,"^^  "  //  Penseroso,''^  "  Lycidas,^'  and  others  of 
his  niin  ir  poems.  During  the  war,  his  active  engage- 
ments, as  Latin  secretary  to  the  Protector,  and  generally, 
p.s  a  poHtical  paitizan,  occu(iied  him  almost  exclusively  ; 
although,  he  has  himself  told  us,  that  even  then  his  mind 
was  brooding  over  the  production  of  something  "which 
the  world  should  not  willingly  let  die."  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, until  "  fallen  on  evil  days  and  evil  tongues,"  when 
the  once  celebrated  Latin  secretary,  and  the  future  poet 
of  "  all  time,"  was  only  known  as  the  blind  old  school- 
master of  Artillery- walk,  that  he  produced  his  immortal 
cjiic. 

The  present  Introductory  Lecture  being,  as  I  have 
already  stated,  rather  histoiical  than  critical,  I  shall  not 
here  enter  into  any  examination  of  the  merits  of  "  Para- 
dise Lost.''^  I  wtiuld,  however,  say  a  few  words  as  to  its 
eifects  upon  the  literature  of  the  time.  It  is  a  very  com- 
mon error  to  suppose  that  it  fell  almost  still-born  from  the 
press  ;  or,  at  least,  that  it  was  gent- rally  received  with  ex- 
traordinaiy  coolness  and  neglect.  That  it  was  not  at  first 
acknowledged  to  be  entitled  to  occupy  that  proud  station 
on  the  British  Purnassus,  which  is  now  universally  con- 
ceded to  it,  is  unquestionable  ;  but  it  is  equally  certain. 


28  LECTURES    ON 

that  when  first  puhllshecl,  it  was  hailed  with  admiration 
and  dehght,  by  men  of  the  highest  lalent ;  and  that  even 
throughout  the  nation  at  large,  the  circumstances  of  the 
author,  and  the  sjiirit  of  the  times  considered,  it  was  far 
more  successful  than  could  have  been  reasonably  expected. 
The  author  was  a  democrat  and  a  dissenter,  and  the  age 
was  ultra-loyal  and  ultra-orthodox  :  the  poem  was 
thoroughly  imbued  with  a  religious  feeling  and  sentiment, 
and  the  public  to  which  it  was  addressed,  was  more  prof- 
ligate and  irrelii?ious  than  it  harl  been  known  to  have  ever 
been  before.  "  Paradise  Lost"  was  moreover  written  in 
blank  verse  ;  a  new,  and  strange,  and,  to  many  ears,  an 
unpleasing  style  of  metre,  and  the  p\irity  and  severity  of 
taste  which  reigned  throughout  it,  was  opposed  to  the 
popular  admiration  of  the  far-fetched  conceUs  and  the 
tawdry  ornaments  of  Cowley,  and  the  metaphysical 
school.  Notwithstanding  all  these  disadvantages,  the 
poem  received  extraordinary  homage,  both  from  the 
learned  and  the  public.  Andrew  Marvell  and  Dr.  Bar- 
row addressed  eulogistic  verses  to  the  author  ;  and  Dry- 
den,  the  laureate,  and  the  favourite  poet  of  the  day,  when 
Milton's  epic  was  first  introduced  to  his  notice  by  the 
Earl  of  Dorset,  exclaimed,  "  This  man  cuts  us  all  out, 
and  the  ancients  too."  He  also  comj)limenfed  Milton 
with  the  well  known  epigram,  beginning  "  Three  Poets, 
in  three  distant  ages  boin  ;"  and  alterwards,  with  his  con- 
sent, constructed  a  Drama  called  '•  The  State  of  Inno- 
cence ;  or,  the  Fall  of  Alan,"  Ibunded  upon  "  Paradise 
Lost.'''  "Fit  audience  let  me  find,  though  iaw,"  says 
Milton,  and  his  wish  was  more  than  gratified  ;  for  above 
1300  copies — a  very  great  number  in  those  days, — of  his 
poem  were  sold  in  less  than  tv/o  years  ;  and  3000  more 
in  less  than  nine  years  afterwards.  It  was  not,  however, 
until  the  celebrated  critique  of  Addison  appeared  in  the 
*'  Spectator,''  that  the  English  nation  at  large  became 
aware  that  it  possessed  a  native  poet  "above  all  Greek, 
above  all  Roman  fame,"  and  that  it  fully  rendered  him 
the  honours  which  were  so  unquestionably  his  due. 

The  publication  of  "  Paradise  Lost"  was  soon  followed 
by  that  of  "  Paradise  Regained"  and  "  Sampson  Sgo- 
nistes."  Neither  of  the  latter  works  can  be  said  to  have 
advanced  the  fame  of  the  f\uthor  of  the  former  ;  but  for 


ENGLISH  voetry;  29 

any  other  author  they  would  have  assuredly  won  the 
wreath  of  immortality.  They  do  not  appear  to  have  had 
any  decided  influence  upon  the  taste  and  spirit  of  the 
time.  The  favourite  poets  were  Butler,  Otway,  and 
Dryden :  and,  if  we  can  once  forget  the  sin  of  overlook- 
ing Milton,  we  must  admit  that  the  judgment  of  the  age 
cannot  be  very  severely  arraigned  for  its  choice  ot  favour- 
ites. The  matchless  wit  of  the  first,  notwithstanding  his 
occasional  jirossnesses,  and  his  too  general  obscurity  ;  the 
profound  pathos  and  sweet  versification  of  the  second, 
notvathstanding  his  wretched  ribald  attempts  at  wit  and 
humour,  his  imperfect  delineation  of  character,  and  the 
wicked  sin  of  bombast,  ot  which  he  is  always  guilty  when 
he  wishes  to  be  sublime ;  and  the  polish,  elegance,  and 
majestic  flow  of  versifii-ation,  the  keen  and  indignant 
satire,  and  the  light  and  airy  fancy  of  the  last,  notwith- 
standing bis  want  of  every  thing  that  can  be  strictly  called 
originality  or  invention  ;  I  say  that  these  brilliant  endow- 
ments of  the  illustrious  triumvirate  which  I  have  named, 
are  sufficient  to  eclipse  all  their  imperfections,  and  to 
justify  to  the  utmost,  the  eulogiums  of  their  warmest  ad- 
mirers. About  this  period,  too,  began  that  brilliatit  but 
profligate  school  of  comedy,  which,  in  time,  could  num- 
ber in  its  ranks  Wycheiley,  Etherege,  Faiquhar,  Van- 
■  bruglj,  Congreve,  Centlivre,  and,  last  and  least,  Cibber. 
This  school  has  been,  strangely  enough,  termed  a  French 
school  of  comedy  :  though  all  its  characteristics,  both  of 
merit  and  defect,  appear  to  me  to  be  perfectly  national. 
The  great  stain  of  profligacy,  which  is  unhappily  im- 
pressed upon  all  its  productions,  is  certainly  not  to  be 
traced  to  the  example  of  our  neighbours  :  for  no  one, 
even  with  the  most  thorough  conviction  of  the  superiority 
of  our  own  literature  to  theirs,  can  pretend  to  point  out 
in  the  scenes  of  French  comedy,  any  thing  like  the  un- 
blushing and  shameless  indelicacy  which  disgraces  the 
masterpieces  of  English  uit  and  humour.  I  fear  that  it 
is  to  that  highly  gifted  duumvirate,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
that  wc  must  assign  the  »'  bad  eminence"  of  having  origi- 
nally given  to  English  comedy  this  unfortunate  character- 
istic. In  the  writings  of  Shakspare,  Jonson,  and  others 
of  their  contemporaries,  we  meet  with  occasional  instances 
of  this  fault,  but  in  none  of  them  is  it  mixed  up  so  esscn- 


J* 


0  J-tCrURKS    ON 


tially  with  the  entire  stamina  and  spirit  of  the  drama,  as 
it  is  in  Bcautnont  and  Fletcher.  The  doiiunation  of  the 
puritans  al'teiwanls  checkt-d  this  vitiat«'d  lassie  :  but  at  the 
restoration  u  lnokt-  out  again  in  ni.*r»  than  piistine  vigour, 
and  continued  so  long  to  infect  dramatic  lit^raturt-,  that, 
with  the  exception  of  the  "  Provoktd  llushanif  ot  Van- 
brugh  and  Ciblxr,  it  would  be  iiliirult  lo  point  out  a  single 
comeilv  betw.  en  the  ti^Mcs  of  D.yden  and  S;eele,  which 
could  possibly  now  be  read  aloud  in  reputable  society. 
D«icency  afterwards  reigned  upon  the  stage;  but,  un- 
fortunately, she  brought  dulncbS  and  imbecility  along 
with  her. 

The  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  to  which  our  inquiries  have 
now  brought  us,  is  a  very  celebraied  j)eriod  in  the  annals 
of  English  literature,  and  has  been  generally  styled  its 
Augustine  age.  I  am  not  disposed  to  quarrel  witli  names. 
As  far  as  prose  literature  is  concerned,  I  am  willing  to 
adiiiit  that  English  authors,  during  the  reign  of  Anne, 
surpassed  all  their  predecessors.  The  language  certainly 
then  poisewsed  a  higher  polish,  and  was  fixed  upon  a  more 
durable  basis,  than  it  had  tver  attained  btiore  ;  a  taste 
for  hterature  was  ver^  generally  diffused,  and  authors 
were  most  muuittcently  patronised.  Indeed,  this  may 
rather  be  siyled  the  golden  age  for  authors  ;  for  emi- 
nence in  polite  literature  was  then  a  passpoit  to  wealth, 
and  honour,  and  sometimes  to  the  highest  oliices  of  the 
state.  Rowe  was  undei--secretary  for  i)ubric  affairs  ; 
Congrevc  enjoyed  a  lucrative  post  in  the  custoins  ,  Swift 
exercised  great  authority  and  influc  nee  in  the  Tory  cabi- 
net ;  Prior  was  amoassadur  to  the  court  of  France  ;  and 
Addison  was  a  secretary  of  state  ;  but  if,  by  styling  this 
the  Augu.stine  age,  it  is  meant  to  affirm  that  its  po  rical 
productions  are  of  a  higher  order  of  merit  than  those  of 
any  former  period  of  our  literary  history,  then  1  must 
pause  before  1  admit  the  propriety  of  so  designating  it. 
Grace,  fluency,  elegance.,  and  1  will  venture  to  add,  me- 
diocrity, are  the.  characteristics  of  the  poetry  of  this  age, 
rather  than  strength,  profundity,  and  originality.  True 
it  is,  that  there  are  splendid  exceptions  to  this  rule,  and 
that  S^vif\,  Pope,  and  Gay  brightened  the  annals  of  the 
period  ot  which  I  am  speaking ,  but  what  are  its  preten- 
sions, when  compared  with  the  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth  % 


ENGLISH  tOETRi.  -  SI 

What  are  even  the  great  names  which  I  have  just  men- 
tioned, when  weighed  against  those  of  Jonson,  Fletcher, 
Massinger,  Spenser,  and  Sbukspcare  ?  and  as  to  the  minor 
writers  of  the  two  periods,  who  would  dream  of  mention- 
ing Donne,  Diumtiiond,  Brown,  Carew,  and  Herrick,  in 
the  same  breath  with  Duke.  King,  Sprat,  Tickell,  lalden, 
and  Hughes  1  I  must  even  deny  the  boasted  refinement  of 
versification  in  the  latter  age  ;  unless  to  refine  be  to 
smooth,  and  level,  and  reduce;  all  to  one  tame  and  insipid 
equality.  Leaving  originality  out  of  the  question,  I  will 
ask,  v/hat  lyrical  pieces  of  the  age  of  Queen  Anne  can, 
in  mere  elegance  of  diction,  and  flow  of  versification,  be 
compared  to  the  lyrical  parts  of  Jonson's  and  Beau- 
mont's dramas,  and  the  sweet  songs  of  Carew  and  Her- 
rick ?  The  following  is  a  once  much  adm.ired  song,  by 
Lord  Landsdowne,  who  was  comptroller  of  the  household 
to  Queen  Anne  : — 

"  The  thoughtful  nights,  and  restless  waking, 

Oil !  the  pains  that  we  endure  ! 
Broken  faith,  unkind  forsaking, 

Ever  doubting,  never  sure.  .  ., 

Hopes  deceiving,  vain  endeavours. 

What  a  race  has  Love  to  run  ! 
False  protesting,  fleeting  favours, 

Every,  every  way  undone. 

Still  complaining,  and  defending,  ' 

Both  to  love,  yet  not  agree  ; 
Fears  tormenting,  passion  rending, 

Oh  !  the  pangs  of  jealousy.  .       ^^ 

From  such  painful  ways  of  living, 
Ah  !  how  sweet  could  Love  be  free  I 

Still  preserving,  still  receiving, 
Fierce,  immortal  ecstasy  !" 

To  these  verses,  which,  I  admit,  are  exceedingly 
smooth  and  (lowing,  1  will  oppose  some  by  the  supposed 
rugged  old  bard,  Ben  Jonson  ;  and  I  will  then  ask,  for  I 
do  not  wish  to  bear  unreasonably  hard  upon  the  noble 
poet  of  the  Augustan  age> — I  say,  I  will  then  ask,  not 
which  has  the  most  sense,  the  most  meaning,  tlie  most 


32  -  LECTURES    ON 

poetry,  but  which  of  the  two  songs  possesses  the  nabiesC 
music  in  the  versification  ? 

"  Oh  !  do  not  wanton  with  those  eyes, 

Lest  I  be  sick  with  sfeinjj  ; 
Nor  oust  itiein  down,  but  let  them  rise, 

Lest  shame  destroy  their  being. 

Oh !  be  not  angry  with  those  fires, 

For  then  tijeir  thre.its  will  kill  me; 
Nor  look  too  kind  on  my  desires, 

For  then  my  hopes  will  spill  me. 

Oh  !  do  not  steep  them  in  thy  tears, 

For  so  will  sorrow  slay  me; 
Nor  spread  them  as  distrnct  with  fears, 

Mine  own  enough  betray  me  !" 

When  it  is  remembered  that  these  latter  verses  were 
written  one  hundred  years  before  thf'  former,  I  think  that 
I  shall  not  excite  a  y  sur.oise,  when  I  say  that  I  cannot 
discover  in  what  consists  the  wonderful  refinement,  and 
improvement  in  versification,  which  is  boasted  to  have 
taken  place  during  that  period. 

Pope  was  the  great  poet  of  that  age,  and  it  is  to  him 
alone  that  English  versification  is  indtbted  for  all  the  im- 
provement which  it  then  received ;  an  improvement  which 
is  confined  to  the  heroic  measure  of  ten  syllables.  That 
noble  measure  had  hitherto  been  written  very  lawlessly 
and  carelessly.  Denham  and  Dryden  alone  had  reduced 
it  to  any  thin.^  like  regularity  and  rule,  and  even-  they  too 
often  sanctioned,  by  their  example,  the  blemishes  of  others. 
Of  Pope,  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say,  that  there  is  not 
a  rough  or  discordant  line  in  all  that  he  has  written.  His 
thoughts,  so  oJten  brilliant  and  original,  sparkle  more 
brightly  by  reason  of  the  elegant  and  flowing  rhymes  in 
which  they  are  expressed  ;  and  even  where  the  ideii  is 
feeble  or  coinmon-;.'lace,  the  music  of  the  versification 
almost  atones  for  it  :  the  ear  is  satisfied,  although  the  mind 
is  disappointed.  Still,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  Pope 
carried  his  refinements  too  far  ;  his  sweetness  cloys  at 
last ;  his  music  wants  the  introduction  of  discords  to  give 
ull  effect  to  the  harmony.     The  unpleasant  effect  pro* 


ENGLISH    POETRI.  33 

duced  upon  the  ear  by  the  frequently  running  ot'  tlie  sense 
of  one  line  with  another,  and  especially  of  continuing  the 
sentence  from  the  last  line  of  one  couplet  to  the  lirst  line 
of  the  next,  Pope  felt,  and  judiciously  avoided.  Still,  for 
the  sense  always  to  tind  a  pause  with  the  couplet,  and  often 
with  the  rhyme,  will  necessarily  produce  something  like 
tedium  and  sameness.  Succeeding  authors  have  been 
conscious  of  this  fault  in  Pope's  versification,  and  have,  in 
some  measure,  reverted  to  the  practice  of  his  predeces- 
sors. Lord  Byron  especially,  has,  by  pauses  in  the  middle 
of  the  line,  and  by  occasionally,  but  with  judgment  and 
caution,  running  one  line  into  another, — enormities,  at 
which  the  poet  of  whom  we  are  now  speaking,  would 
have  been  stricken  with  horror, — has  frequently  produced 
effects  of  which  the  well  tuned,  but  somewhat  fettered, 
lyre  of  Pope  was  utterly  incapable.  It  is,  however,  in- 
justice to  Pope,  to  speak  of  him  so  long  as  a  mere  ver- 
sifier ;  great  as  liis  merits  were  in  that  respect,  his  poetry, 
as  we  shall  hereafter  show  more  at  length,  possessed  re- 
commendations of  a  higher  and  nobler  order ;  keen 
satire,  deep  pathos,  great  powers  of  description,  and 
wonderful  richness  and  ent-rgy  of  diction. 

At  this  period,  no  attempt  worthy  of  our  notice  was 
made  at  epic  poetry,  and  the  leaden  sceptre  of  French 
taste  was  stretched  over  the  tragic  drama,  and  over 
lyric,  pastoral,  and  descriptive  poetry.  The  tragedies 
of  Shakspeare  were  driven  from  the  stage,  to  make  way 
for  those  of  Addison  and  Rowe  ;  such  songs  as  my  lord 
Lansdowne's,  of  which  I  have  given  a  specimen,  were 
thought  cvonderfully  natural  and  touching  ;  and  pastoral 
and  descriptive  poetry  was  in  the  hands  of  such  rural 
swains  as  Ambrose  Philips  and  others,  who  were  called 
iTien  of  wit  about  town  ;  who  painted  their  landscapes 
after  the  model  of  Hyde  Park,  and  the  squares  ;  and  drew 
their  sketches  of  rural  life  and  manners  from  what  they 
observed  at  the  levees  and  the  drawing-rooms  of  the 
great.  Mere  unsophisticated  simple  nature  was  consi- 
dered low  and  vulgar,  and  when  Gay  wrote  his  ''Eclogues,''^ 
which  he  intended  should  be  burlesque,  he  went  to  the 
furthest  possible  remove  from  the  fashionable  and  elegant 
way  of  writing  pastoral  poetry,  and  so,  unconsciously 
Droduced  a  real  and  natural  likeness  of  rustic  scenerv  and 

E 


34  LECTURES    ON 

society.  There  is  a  well  known  picture  ol  day-break  by 
Shakspeare,  which,  although  comprised  in  two  lines,  pos- 
sesses more  of  reality  and  vividness  than  can  be  found  in 
Avhole  volumes  of  dilluse  description  which  I  could  name  : 

"  Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  Day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain's  top." 

This  passage  would  have  been  considered  vile  and  vulgar 
by  the  critics  of  those  days  :  the  word  "  candles"  would 
liave  been  voted  low  and  unpoetical,  and  "  torches,"  per- 
haps substituted  for  it ;  "  Day"  would  never  have  been 
described  as  standing  "  tiptoe,"  but  as  with  "  foot  up- 
raised," or  "  profoundly  advancing ;"  and  what  gentleman 
wlio  walked  about  the  Strand  and  the  Mall,  writing  pas- 
toral poetry,  would,  when  speaking  of  "  mountain  tops," 
have  thought  of  the  mists  which  sometimes  envelope 
them,  or  would  have  dreamed  that  such  ugly  accompani- 
ments could  possibly  add  to  their  sublimity  and  beauty'? 
Shakspeare  has  so  little  idea  of  what  is  regal  and  Roman, 
that  he  shows  us  Lear,  tottering  about  amidst  the  pelting 
of  the  storm,  and  taking  shelter  with  a  madman  and  a  fool 
in  a  hovel ;  and  describes  Julius  Cccsar  as  once  shivering 
with  an  ague-fit : — 

•'  Aye,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  tlie  Romans 
Mark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 
Alas  1  it  cried, '  give  me  some  drink,  Titinius,' 
Like  a  sick  girl !" 

In  the  Augustan  age,  however,  things  were  ordered  very  dif- 
ferently "  On  avoit  change  tout  cela.''  Jllexand&i^  could 
not  appear  upon  the  stage  until  one  of  the  persons  of  the 
drama  exclaims,  "  Behold  !  the  master  of  the  world  ap- 
proaches!"  Calo,  when  for  the  first  time  he  sees  the 
dead  body  of  his  son,  does  not,  as  Shakspeare,  in  tiis 
ignorance,  would  have  probably  made  him  do, — 

"  Shed  some  natural  tears,  but  wipe  them  soon," 

but  merely  exclaims,  "  What  a  pity  it  is  that  one  can  die 
but  once  to  serve  our  country !"  and,  when  the  heroine  ol' 
the  "  Ci(r  learns  that  her  father  has  been  slain  by  her 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  '  30 

lover,  what  does  she  do  ]  In  nature,  she  would  fahit,  or 
at  any  rate  she  would  certainly  not  think  ot  ceremony, 
but  in  the  drama,  she  makes  the  politest  of  all  possible 
curtsies  to  the  company,  and  begs  that  they  will  excuse 
her  retiring  for  a  few  moments ! 

The  fact  is,  that  the  age  of  Anne  rendered  itself  illus- 
trious by  its  prose  writings.  Its  poetry  is,  with  few 
exceptions,  exceedingly  mediocre.  Pope,  Gay,  Swift, 
Steele,  Shaftsbury,  Addison,  and  Bolingbroke  are  its  fore- 
most authors.  Of  these,  the  first  alone  is  entitled  to  the 
rank  of  a  great  poet,  and  the  poetry  of  the  last  five  is  too 
trifling  and  unimportant  to  be  taken  into  the  account. 

The  liistory  of  English  poetry  for  a  long  period  after- 
wards presents  a  very  dreary  and  melancholy  prospect. 
It  is  in  the  didactic  walk  alone,  which  is  the  nearest  allied 
to  prose,  that  v/e  meet  with  any  production  approaching 
to  excellence,  with  the  exception  of  the  beautiful  odes  of 
Collins.  Thomson,  Akenside,  Goldsmith,  Young,  and 
Dyer  are  men  to  whom  English  literature  is  greatly  in- 
debted, and  who  distinguished  themselves  as  much  as  the 
narrow  walk  in  which  they  chose  to  be  confined  would 
allow  them.  Thomson  especially  did  much  to  bring  back 
the  attificial  taste  of  the  public  to  a  just  appreciation  of 
natural  scenes  and  sentiments,  naturally  described  and  ex- 
pressed. His  exclamation  on  the  publication  of  Glover's 
*' Leonidas,''^  "What  !  he  write  an  epic  poem  who  never 
Baw  a  mountain  !"'  shows  that  he  well  knew  that  Nature 
was  the  only  school  in  which  true  poetry  is  taught.  Yet 
even  Thomson  himself  was  somewhat  infected  with  the 
taste  of  the  age,  and  is  too  fond  of  pompous  and  high- 
sounding  diction,  in  which  we  find  his  beautiful  thoiights 
obscured,  instead  of  being  adorned.  This  objection,  how- 
ever, does  not  apply  to  the  "  Castle  of  Indolence,^^  the 
jnost  delightful  production  of  its  age.  Akenside  wrote 
elegantly  and  classically,  with  precision,  and  with  energy. 
Goldsmith  is  perfection  in  every  thing  that  he  has  done  : 
the  only  thing  to  regret  is,  that  he  has  done  so  little. 
Young,  so  often  turgid  and  declamatory,  is  not,  I  confess, 
much  to  my  taste,  altliough  he  has  doubtless  many  bold 
and  original  thoughts,  which  he  expresses  very  povverfull}'. 
Dyer,  in  his  long  poem  upon  sheep-shearing,  has  made 
as  much  of  so  unpoelical  a  theme  as  could  possibly  be 


56  LECTURES   ON 

expected  ;  but  the  theme,  after  all,  had  better  have  been 
let  alone.  The  epics  of  Blackmore,  of  Wilkie,  and  A 
Glover,  once  enjoyed  considerable  popularity.  They  have 
now  passed  into  comparative  oblivion  ;  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  "  Leonidas'^  of  the  last,  they  have  achieved 
only  the  destiny  which  they  merited.  Glover  was  a 
scholar,  and  a  man  of  taste.  His  poem  is  chaste,  clas- 
sical, and  elegant ;  but  at  the  same  time,  defective  in 
action,  character,  passion,  and  interest.  The  sentiments 
are  just,  and  eloquently  expressed,  and  the  imagery  and 
descriptions  are  in  strict  congruity  with  the  classical  na- 
ture of  the  subject ;  hut  still  the  effect  of  the  entire  poem 
is  such,  that  we  rather  approve  than  admire.  What  Dr. 
Johnson  said  of  his  dramatic  namesake,  may,  with  much 
more  truth  and  propriety,  be  applied  to  Glover : — 

*'  Cold  approbation  gives  the  lingering  bays, 
And  those  who  dare  not  censure,  scarce  can  praise." 

But  brighter  days  were  about  to  dawn  on  English 
poetical  literature.  The  public  became  satiated  with  the 
mediocrity  with  which  their  poetical  caterers  gorged  them, 
and  they  began  to  turn  their  eyes  upon  the  elder  writers, 
whose  traditionary  fame  still  survived,  and  whose  works 
were  much  talked  of,  although  they  were  little  read. 
Johnson  and  Steevens  published  their  edition  of  Shaks- 
peare  ;  and  so  laid  the  foundation  of  that  general  know- 
ledge and  due  appreciation  of  the  merits  of  the  great  dra- 
matist, which  form  so  distinguishing  and  creditable  a  fea- 
ture in  the  public  taste  at  the  present  day.  Percy  gave  to 
the  world  those  invaluable  literary  treasures,  the  ^^Reliques 
of  ^flncient  English  Poetry,^'  which,  although  at  first  re- 
ceived with  coolness  and  neglect,  eventually,  by  their  sim- 
plicity and  beauty,  extorted  general  admiration ;  and,  as 
Mr.  Wordsworth  has  said,  "  absolutely  redeemed  the  po- 
etry of  this  country." — "  I  do  not  think,"  adds  this  distin- 
guished author,  "that  there  is  an  able  writer  in  verse  of 
the  present  day,  who  would  not  be  proud  to  acknowledge 
his  obligations  to  the  ♦  Reliques.^  1  know  that  it  is  so  with 
my  friends  ;  and  for  myself,  I  am  happy  to  make  a  public 
avowal  of  my  own."  The  new  edition  of  Shakspeare  turned 
the  attention  of  the  public  to  the  works  of  his  contempora- 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  37 

ries,  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Ford,  Massinger,  and  Jon- 
son,  with  all  the  world  of  literav}  wealth  which  their  works 
contain,  were  given  to  the  public  by  the  successive  labours 
of  Seward,  Whalley,  Coleman,  Weber,  and  Giftord.  Ellis 
and  Headley  also  published  their  "  i!ipecime7is  of  the  An- 
cient English  Poets  ;"  and  Dr.  Anderson  sent  tbrih  into 
the  world  his  edhion  of  the  English  Poets,  including  all 
those  mighty  bards  who  were  omitted  in  Dr.  Johnson's 
edition,  by  reason  of  the  strange  plan  which  he  imposed 
upon  himself,  or  which  was  dictated  to  him  by  others,  of 
beginning  that  collection  with  the  works  of  Cowley.  An 
author  too,  of  a  far  higher  character  for  originality  of 
mind,  purity  of  taste,  simplicity  of  thought  and  expression, 
and  deep  observation  of  natun-,  than  had  come  before  the 
public  for  many  years,  appeared  in  the  person  of  the 
highly-gifted,  but  ill-fated  Cowper.  The  success  of  his 
exquisite  "  Task''"'  was  so  rapid  and  brilliant,  as  to  show 
that  the  taste  of  the  public  had  undergone  a  great  revo- 
lution since  the  time  when  the  pastorals  of  PhUlips,  the 
heroics  of  Blackmore,  and  the  l3rics  of  Lansdowne,  were 
its  favourite  studies. 

Into  the  merits  and  the  authenticity  of  two  works,  which 
created  an  extraordinary  sensation  about  this  time,  I  shall 
have  a  more  convenient  opportunity  of  inquii  ing  in  a  sub- 
sequent lecture.  I  mean  the  poems  attributed  to  Row- 
ley the  Saxon,  and  to  Ossian  the  Celtic,  poets.  The 
authenticity  of  the  former  appears  to  be  a  point  which  is 
now  very  generally  given  up  ;  but  that  of  the  latter  is  a 
question  with  which  the  literary  world  is  still  agitated,  and 
with  which  it  will  probably  continue  to  be  agitated,  as  long 
as  the  poems  themselves  are  extant. 

Having  thus  endeavoured  to  lay  before  you  the  history  of 
the  rise  and  progress  of  English  poetry,  from  the  days  of 
Chaucer  to  those  of  Cowper,  I  do  not  intend  to  bring  the  in- 
quiry down  to  a  later  period,  or  to  venture  upon  any  discus- 
sion of  the  merits  of  the  writers  of  the  present  day.  There 
is,  however,  one  omission  in  my  lecture  which  may  perhaps 
require  an  explanation.  I  have  not  directed  your  atten- 
tion to  the  Scottish  poets  who  flourished  during  the  period 
which  has  been  embraced  by  our  inquiries.  This  omis' 
sion  has  occurred,  not,  1  trust,  from  any  insensibility  to 
the  merits  of  those  distinguished  writers,  but  from  a  con- 


GS  LECTURES    ON 

sciousness  of  my  own  inability  to  speak  critically  upon  the 
subject.  To  select  a  i'ew  names  at  random,  Dunbar,  the 
northern  Chaucer ;  James  the  First,  the  ou\y  monarch 
whose  poetical  laurels  has  been  large  enough  to  hide  his 
diadem;  and  Burns,  the  most  exquisite  lyrical  poet  which 
this  nation  or  any  other  has  ever  yet  possessed,  are  au- 
thors whose  nu-rits,  although  they  may  be  universally  felt 
and  appreciated,  can  onl)  be  critically  expounded  and 
pointed  out  by  a  native  of  the  country  to  which  they 
belong. 

Here,  therefore,  must  we  pause  for  the  present :  the 
illustrious  names  which  have  "  been  familiar  in  our  mouths 
as  household  woids,"  carry  their  ov/n  eulogy  along  with 
them  ;  and  I  will  venture  to  assert,  that  there  are  few 
persons  who  will  refuse  to  echo  the  sentiment  of  a  dis- 
tinguished living  writer;  — 

"  Blessings  be  on  them,  and  eternal  praise. 
The  Poets  I" 


ENGLISH    POETRV.  o^ 


LECTURE  THE  SECOND. 


EPIC  AND   NARRATIVE  POETRV, 

Epic  Poetry  in  general : — Epic  and  Dramatic  Poetry  com- 
pared : — Critical  distinction  between  Taste  and  Genius  : — 
Chaucer,  Spenser,  and  Milton  compared  : — The  Mirror  for 
Magistrates  .—  Lord  Buckhurst  :  —  Drayton  : — Chamber- 
lain's Pharonnida  : — Chapman's  Homer,  and  other  old  Eng- 
lish Translations  of  Epic  and  Narrative  Poetry  : — Milton  : — 
Influence  of  Paradise  Lost  on  the  National  Taste  : — Para- 
dise Regained  : — Cowley's  Davideis  : — Davenant : — Dry- 
den  : — The  Translations  of  Rowe,  Pope,  &.c. — Authenti- 
city of  Macpherson's  Ossian  : — Cliatterton. 

Having  already  treated  the  subject  of  English  poetry 
historically,  and  endeavoured  to  give  a  sketch  of  the  revo- 
lutions in  public  taste  and  opinion,  I  shall  not  consider 
myself  any  longer  bound  to  speak  of  the  authors  who  may 
come  under  our  review  in  any  chronological  order,  but 
shall  classify  them  according  to  the  nature  of  the  subjects 
on  which  they  have  written.  I  shall,  therefore,  dt  vote 
this,  and  the  remaining  lectures,  to  the  consideration, — 
First,  of  epic  and  narrative  poetry ;  Secondly,  of  dra- 
matic poetry ;  Thirdly,  ot'  descriptive  and  didactic  po- 
etry, including  pastoral  and,  satire  ;  and  Fourthly,  of 
lyrical  and  miscellaneous  poetry.  In  pursuance  of  which 
arrangement,  we  shall  at  present  confine  our  attention  to 
the  subject  of  epic  and  narrative  poetry. 

The  production  of  a  standard  epic  poem  has  been 
generally  considered  the  highest  effort  of  human  genius, 
and  so  seldom  has  such  an  eftbrt  been  made,  that  the  rarity 
of  such  an  occurrence  alone,  would  seem  to  justify  the 
very  high  estimate  which  has  been  formed  of  its  value. 
1  will  not  attempt  to  say  how  many,  or  how  (tw,  poems 
have  been  produced,  which  arc  really  and  truly  of  an 
e{)ic  character.     Some  critics  maintain  that  tliere  is  only 


•10  LECTURES   ON 

one,  tlie  production  of  the  immortal  lather  of  poetry  ; 
others  admit  the  "  JKneiil"  into  the  Hst  ;  Englishmen 
struggle  to  obtain  the  e[)ic  bays  tor  IMilton  ;  and  the  Ita- 
lians, the  Portuguese,  and  the  Germans  are  equally  stren- 
uous in  tbfir  advocacy  of  the  rights  of  Tasso,  of  Camo- 
ens,  and  of  Klopsiock.  Even  granting  all  these  claimg, 
and  I  am  not  aware  of  another  deserving  even  of  a  mo- 
ment's consideration,  we  shall  find  that  the  world  has, 
during  the  six  thousand  years  of  its  existence,  produced 
only  six  epic  poets. 

I  know  tliat  there  are  critics  who  consider  the  drama 
entitled  to  a  higher  rank  than  the  epopee.  For  my  own 
part,  I  would  rather 

"  Bless  the  Sun,  than  reason  how  it  shines  :" — 

I  would  rather  enjoy  the  beauties  of  the  epic  and  the 
dramatic  muses,  than  oppose  them  to  each  other,  and 
awaken  controversy  as  to  their  relative  excellencies.  As 
the  subject,  however,  forces  itself  upon  us,  and  as  I  mean 
to  touch  it  reverently,  for, — 

"  We  do  it  wrong,  being  so  majestical, 
To  offer  it  the  show  of  violence," 

I  will  venture  a  few  observations  upon  it.  The  drama  is 
to  epic  poetry,  what  sculp  ure  is  to  historical  painting-. 
It  is,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  a  severer  art.  It  rejects 
many  a  iventitious  aids  of  which  the  epic  mayaviiil  itself. 
It  has  more  unity  and  simplicity.  Its  figures  stand 
out  more  boldly,  and  in  stronger  relief.  But  then  it  has 
no  aerial  ba<'k  ground  ;  it  has  no  perspective  of  enchant- 
ment :  it  cannot  draw  so  larg'  y  on  the  imagination  of  the 
spectator ;  it  must  present  to  ihe  eye,  and  make  palpable 
to  the  touch,  what  the  epic  poet  may  steep.Ln  the  rainbow 
hues  of  fancy,  and  veil,  but  with  a  veil  of  light,  woven 
in  the  looms  of  his  imagination.  The  epopee  comprises 
narration  and  description,  and  yet  must  be  in  many 
parts,  essentially  dramatic.  The  epic  poet  is  the  dramatic 
author  and  the  actor  combined.  The  fine  characteristic 
speech  which  Milton  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Moloch,  in 
the  second  book  of  <'  Paradise  Lost,'"^  proves  him  to  have 


ENGLISH    rOETRV.  "  4% 

Weil  possessed  of  Iiigli  powers  for  dramatic  writing ;  and 
when,  after  the  speech  is  concluded,  the  poet  adds,— 

•'  He  ended  frowning,. and  his  look  denounced 
Desperate  revenge,  and  battle  dangerous 
To  less  than  gods:"-— 

tie  personates  the  character  with  a  power  and  energy 
worthy  of  the  noblest  actor.  I  have  said  that  the  epic 
poet  is  the  dramatist  and  the  actor  combined  ;  but  he  is 
more.  He  nmst  not  only  write  the  dialogue,  and  create 
the  actors  who  are  to  utter  it,  but  he  must  also  erect  the 
stage  on  which  they  are  to  tread,  and  paint  the  scenes  in 
which  the}  are  to  appear.  Still,  the  drama,  by  the  very 
circumstances  which  condense  and  circumscribe  its 
powers,  becomes  capable  of  exciting  a  more  intense  and 
tremendous  interest.  Hence  there  are  pieces  of  dra- 
matic writing,  which,  even  in  the  perusal  only,  have  an 
overwhelming  power,  to  which  epic  poetry  cannot  attain™ 
The  third  act  of  "  Othello,''''  the  dagger  scene  in  "  Mac- 
beth,^* and  the  interview  between  PVallenstein  and  the 
Swedisk  Captain,  may  be  adduced  as  instances.  Per- 
hafis,  to  sum  up  the  whole  question,  what  the  epic  poet 
gains  in  expansion  and  variety,  the  dramatic  poet  gains 
in  condensation  and  intensity.  When  Desdemona  sa3's  to 
OthcllOy — • 

"  And  yet  I  fear, 
When  your  eyes  roll  so  ;" 

we  have  as  vivid  a  portrait  of  the  Moors  countenance, 
as  the  most  laboured  description  could  give  us.  Again, 
how  powerfully  is  the  frown  on  the  features  of  the  Ghosi 
in  "  Hamlet"  pictured  to  us  in  two  lines  : — 

''  So  frown'd  he  once,  when  in  an  angry  parie, 
lie  smote  the  sledded  Polack  on  the  ice." 

Such  descriptions  would  be  meagre  and  unsatisfactory 
in  e{)ic  poetry  ;  more  diffuse  ones  would  mar  the  interest, 
and  impede  the  action  in  the  drama.  In  the  drama  the 
irrand  pivot  upon  which  the  whole  moves  is  action  :  in 

F 


42  LECTtRE::*    0X5 

epic  poetry  it  is  narration.  Narration  is  the  fitter  me- 
ilium  for  representing  a  grand  series  of  events  ;  and  action 
for  exhibiting  the  power  or  progress  of  a  passion,  or  the 
consequences  of  an  incident.  Hence,  the  siege  of  Troy, 
the  wanderings  of  Ulysses,  and  the  loss  of  Paradise,  are 
epic  subjects  ;  and  the  jealousy  of  Olhello,  the  ambition 
of  Macbeth,  and  the  results  of  the  ill-grounded  partiality 
of  Lear,  are  dramatic  ones.  The  epic  poet  takes  a 
loftier  flight ;  the  dramatist  treads  with  a  firmer  step. 
The  one  dazzles  ;  the  other  touches.  The  epic  is  won- 
dered at ;  the  drama  is  felt.  We  lift  Milton  like  a  con- 
queror above  our  heads ;  we  clasp  Shakspeare  like  a 
brother  to  our  hearts  ! 

Before  I  proceed  further,  it  will  be  requisite  to  state 
the  sense  in  which  I  shall  use  two  words,  which  will 
necessarily  occur  very  frequently  in  the  course  of  these 
lectures  ; — namely,  Genius  and  Taste.  Genius,  I  should 
say,  is  the  power  of  production  ;  Taste  is  the  power  of 
appreciation.  Genius  is  creation  ;  Taste  is  selection. 
Horace  Walpole  was  a  man  of  great  taste,  without  ao 
atom  of  genius.  Nathaniel  Lee  was  a  man  of  genius, 
without  taste.  Dryden  had  more  genius  than  Pope. 
Pope  had  more  taste  than  Dryden.  Many  instances 
may  be  adduced  of  obesity  of  taste  in  men  of  genius ; 
especially  with  reference  to  their  own  works.  Milton, 
who  had  genius  enough  to  produce  "  Paradise  Lost,""  had 
not  taste  enough  to  perceive  its  superiority  over  "  Para- 
dise Regained.^''  Rowe,  who  produced  so  many  success- 
ful  tragedies,  all  of  which — although  I  am  no  violent 
admirer  of  them, — possessed  a  certain  degree  of  merit, 
valued  himself  most  upon  the  wretched  ribaldry  in  his 
Comedy  of  the  "  .S/fcr."  Dr.  Johnson  was  proud  of  his 
Dictionary,  and  looked  upon  the  "  Rambler''^  as  a  trifle 
of  which  he  ought  almost  to  be  ashamed.  The  timidity 
and  hesitation  with  which  many  juvenile  authors  have 
ventured  to  lay  their  works  before  the  public,  and  their 
surprise  when  public  opinion  has  stamped  them  as  works 
of  high  merit,  have  been  attributed  to  humility  and  bash- 
fulness.  The  fact,  however,  is  often  otherwise  ;  it  is  not 
humility,  but  want  of  taste.  Genius,  or  the  power  of 
producing  such  works,  is  not  accompanied  by  taste,  or 
the  power  of  appreciating  them.     Taste  is  of  later  growth 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  -13 

in  the  mind  than  Genius ;  and  the  reason  is,  I  think,  ob- 
vious. Genius  is  innate  :  a  part  and  portion  of  the  mind  ; 
born  with  it ;  while  taste  is  the  result  of  observation, 
and  inquiry,  and  experience.  However  the  folly  and 
vanity  of  ignorance  and  presumption  may  have  deluged 
the  public  wirh  worthless  productions,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  deficiency  of  taste  in  men  of  genius,  has 
deprived  the  world  of  many  a  work  of  merit  and  origi- 
nality. Genius  is  often  startled  at  the  boldness  of  her 
own  ideas  ;  while, 

"  Fools  rush  in,  where  angels  fear  to  tread.'' 

Having  said  thus  much  in  explanation  of  the  sense  in 
which  I  shall  use  two  words,  which  are  so  often  employed 
in  a  vague  and  indefinite  manner,  let  us  return  to  the 
immediate  subject  before  us.  It  has  been  said  that  Eng- 
lish literature  cannot  boast  of  the  possession  of  any  work 
which  is  strictly  entitled  to  be  denominated  an  epic 
poem.  I  know  not  exactly  what  this  assertion  means. 
If  it  mean  that  the  works  of  the  English  poets  are  not 
curiously  and  exactly  modelled  after  the  example  of  classi- 
cal writers,  then  I  admit  and  I  glory  in  its  truth.  The  great 
characteristic  of  English  literature,  from  the  days  of 
Chaucer  to  the  present  time,  has  been  its  originality. 
Words  are  arbitrary,  and  I  care  not  greatly  whether  the 
specific  term  epic  can  be  appropriately  applied  to  the 
works  of  Chaucer,  or  of  Spenser,  or  of  Milton.  If  the 
critics  who  are  such  strenuous  advocates  for  the  exclu- 
sive possession  of  the  epic  bays  by  Homer  and  Virgil, 
will  be  conciliated  by  such  a  concession,  I  will  be  content 
that  "  Paradise  Losf  shall  be  called  a  divine  poem  ;  tho 
"  Fainj  Qtteen,"  a  romantic  poem  ;  and  the  "  Ganlerbunj 
Tales,^^  a  narrative  poem.  If  original  genius,  if  severe 
taste,  if  profound  knowledge  of  human  nature,  if  a  luxu- 
riant imagination,  and  a  rich  and  copious  diction,  entitle  a 
poet  to  the  highest  honours  of  his  art,  then  are  the  three 
illustrious  Englishmen  whom  I  have  named,  whether  I 
may  call  them  epic  poets  or  not,  eminently  and  incontes- 
tibly  entitled  to  those  honours. 

These  three  poets  have  not  many  points  of  comparisonj 
They  are  each  original  and  great.     If  I  may  be  a1  lower} 


44  LECTURES    ON 

to  illustrate  my  opinions  by  a  reference  to  the  sister  art,  I 
should  say,  that  ('haucer's  outlines  are  more  spirited  and 
graceful ;  but  that  Spenser  is  the  fmer  colourist,  Chaucer 
I  should  compare  to  Raffaelle  ;  Spenser  to  Rubens  ;  but 
then  Chaucer  combined  with  all  his  elegance  and  beauty, 
many  laughing  graces  which  neither  his  brother  bard,  nor 
the  illustrious  artist  whom  I  have  just  named,  possessed. 
If  one  could  suppose  a  congruity  in  such  a  combination, 
I  should  say  that  Chaucer  was  Raifaele  and  Teniers  com- 
bined :  RatVaelle,  perhaps,  a  little  lowered  from  his  pin- 
nacle of  dignity  and  elegance,  and  Teniers  certainly 
much  elevated  above  his  vulgarity  and  grossnesses. 
For  the  genius  of  Milton  I  can  hardly  find  a  fitting  com- 
parison. When  he  sets  the  Deity  in  arms,  when  he  mar- 
shals myriads  of  malignant  spirits  in  battle  array  against 
Omnipotence,  when  he  paints  the  bliss  of  heaven,  and 
the  horrors  of  hell,  he  reminds  me  of  the  power  and 
sublimity  of  Michael  Angelo  :  when  he  shows  us  our 
first  parents,  sinless,  artless,  and  endowed  with  godlike 
beauty, — 

"  Adam  the  goodliest  man  of  men  since  born 
His  sons  ;  the  fairest  of  her  daughters,  Eve;" 

he  exhibits  all  the  grace  and  beauty  of  Raffaelle  ;  when 
he  paints  the  happy  fields  of  Paradise,  where  nature 
played  at  will  her  virgin  fancies,  he  seems  to  have  caught 
the  pencil  of  Claude  Lorraine  ;  and  when  we  listen  to 
the  solemn  and  majestic  flow  of  his  verse,  and  the  ear 
dwells  on  the  rich  harmony  of  his  periods,  we  are  reminded 
of  another  art,  and  feel  that  neither  Mozart  nor  Handel 
could  produce  music  so  perfect  and  soul-stirring  as  that 
of  Milton. 

In  the  former  lecture,  I  discussed,  as  fully  as  my  limits 
would  permit  me,  the  merits  of  Chaucer,  the  father  of 
English  poetry.  Spenser  is  an  author  of  a  very  different 
stamp.  To  wit  or  humour,  he  has  no  pretensions. 
Neither  are  his  delineations  of  human  character  at  all 
comparable  to  those  of  his  great  predecessor.  Chaucer's 
knowledge  of  the  heart  of  man  vvas  almost  Shakspearean. 
Spenser  had,  however,  a  richer  imagination.  He  was  a 
greater  inventor,  although  a  less  acute  observer,    Chaucer 


ENGLISH    POETRV.  45 

was  incapable  of  creating  such  original  imaginary  beings 
as  the  Fays,  Elves,  Heroes,  and  Heroines  of  Spenser ; 
and  Spenser  was  equally  iiscapable  of  the  exquisite  truth 
and  fidelity  of  Chaucer's  portiaituics  from  real  lue.  There 
is  also  a  fine  moral  and  didactic  lone  running  thrcugh  the 
"  Fairy  Queen,'^  which  we  look  lor  in  vain  in  the  ^'Can- 
terbury Tales. ^'  Spenser's  imagery  is  magnificent.  His 
descriptive  powers  are  of  the  highest  order.  Here  the 
two  poets  approximate  more  than  in  any  other  particu- 
lar :  yet  even  here,  they  essentially  differ.  Spenser  paints 
fairy  haunts,  enchanted  palaces,  unearthly  Parailises, 
things  such  as  Caliban  saw  in  his  sleep,  and,  "  waking, 
cried  to  dream  again."  Chaucer's  pencil  depicts  the  smil- 
ing verdant  English  landscape,  which  v/e  see  before  us 
every  day ;  the  grass,  the  flowers,  the  brooks,  the  blue 
sky,  and  the  glowing  sun. 

When  we  open  the  volumes  of  Spenser,  we  leave  this 
"working-day  world,"  as  Rosalind  calls  it,  behind  us. 
We  are  no  longer  in  it,  or  of  it.  We  are  introi'uced  to  a 
new  creation,  new  scenes,  new  manners,  new  characters. 
The  laws  of  nature  are  suspended,  or  reversed.  The  pos- 
sible, the  probable,  and  the  practicable,  all  these  are 
thrown  behind  us.  The  mighty  wizard,  whose  spell  is 
upon  us,  waves  but  his  wand,  and  a  new  world  starts  into 
existence,  inhabited  by  nothing  but  the  marvtlious  and 
the  wild.  Spenser  is  the  very  antipodes  of  Shakspeare. 
The  latter  is  of  the  earth,  earthy.  His  most  ethereal 
fancies  have  some  touch  of  mortality  about  them.  His 
wildest  and  most  visionary  chaiacters  savour  of  huo  anity. 
Whatever  notes  he  draws  forth  from  his  harp,  it  is  the  strings 
of  the  human  heart  that  he  touches.  Spenser's  hero  is 
always  Honour,  Truth,  Valour,  Courtf^sy,  but  it  is  not  Man. 
His  heroine  is  Meekness,  Chastity,  Constancy,  Beauty, 
but  it  is  noi  Woman  ; — his  landsca{)es  are  fertility,  Hiag- 
r.ificence,  verdure,  splendour,  but  they  are  not  Nature. 
His  pictures  have  no  relief;  they  are  all  light,  or  all 
shadow  ;  they  are  all  wonder,  but  no  truth.  Still  do  I  not 
complain  of  them  ;  nor  would  I  have  them  other  than 
what  they  are.  They  are  delightful,  and  matchless  in 
their  way.  They  arc  dreams  :  glorious,  soul-entrancing 
dreams.     They  are  audacious,  but  magnificent  falsehoods. 


48  LECTURES    ON 

They  are  like  the  palaces  built  in  the  clouds  ;  the  domes, 
the  turrets,  the  towers,  the  long-drawn  terraces,  the  aerial 
battlements,  who  does  not  know  that  they  have  no  stable 
existence  ?  but,  who  «loes  not  sigh  when  they  pass  away  ? 
The  ^^  Mirror  of  Magistrates^^  was  a  work  to  which 
many  of  ihe  most  eminent  writers  in  Elizabeth's  reign 
contributed.  It  consists  of  narratives  of  the  adventures 
of  certain  princes,  an!  othei-  great  characters  in  English 
history,  whose  lives  had  been  unfortunate.  Its  incidents 
are  founded  on  the  old  chronicles,  which,  indeed,  are  Jbl- 
lowed  so  servilely  in  general,  as  to  give  to  the  work  a  very 
prosaic  character,  and  to  take  from  it  all  claim  to  original- 
ity. The  most  valuable  portion  of  it  is  the  Induction,  by 
Lord  Backhurst.  The  poet  supposes  himself  to  be  led, 
like  Dante,  to  the  infernal  regions,  under  the  conduct  of 
Sorrow  ;  where  he  meets  with  the  spirits  of  those  persons, 
alike  distinguished  for  their  hi'.rh  station  and  their  misfor- 
tunes, whose  narrations  compose  the  volume.  He  also 
meets  with  various  allegorical  characters :  such  as  Fear, 
Sorrow,  Old  Age,  Sleep,  and  Death  ;  and  it  is  in  the  won- 
derful power  and  spirit  with  v^hich  the  poet  personifies 
these  allegorical  beings,  that  the  great  merit  of  his  work 
consists.  What,  for  instance,  can  be  liner,  or  truer,  than 
the  following  picture  of  Old  Age  ? — 

"  And  next  in  order  sad  Old  Age  we  found  ; 
His  beard  all  hoar,  his  eyes  hollow  and  blind, 

With  drooping  cheer  still  pouring  on  the  ground, 
As  on  the  place  where  nature  him  assign'd 
To  rest,  when  that  the  Sisters  had  untwined 

His  vital  thread,  and  ended  with  their  knife, 
*•  The  fleeting  course  of  fast-declining  life. 


Crookback'd  he  was,  tooth-shaken,  and  blear-eyed, 
Went  on  three  feet,  and  sometimes  crept  on  four : 

With  old  lame  bones  that  rattled  by  his  side, 
His  scalp  all  piled,  and  he  with  eld  forlore  ; 
His  wither'd  fist  still  knocking  at  Death's  door^ 

Trembling  and  drivelling  as  he  draws  his  breath, 

Jji  brief,  the  shape  and  messenger  of  Death." 


ENGLISH    POETKV.  47 

Sleep  is  also  delineated  with  the  pencil  of  a  master  : — 

'•  By  him  lay  heavy  Sleej),  cousin  of  Dpath, 
Flat  on  the  grf>und,  and  still  as  any  stone  ; 

A  very  corpse,  save  yielding  forth  a  breath  ; 

Small  keep  took  he,  whotn  Fortune  frowned  on, 
Or  who  she  lifted  up  into  the  Throne 

Of  high  renown  ;   but  as  a  living  death, 

So  dead  alive,  of  life  he  drew  the  breath. 

The  body's  rest,  the  quiet  of  the  heart, 

The  travaiPs  ease,  the  still  Night's  fere  was  he, 

And  of  our  life  in  earth  the  better  part ; 
Rever  of  sight,  and  yet  m  whom  we  see 
Things  oft  that  'tide,  and  oft  that  never  be. 

Without  respect,  esteeming  equally 

King  Croesus'  pomp,  and  Irus'  poverty." 

The  following  description  of  Night  may  likewise  chai- 
lenge  a  comparison  with  any  thing  on  the  same  subject  in 
the  language : — 

»'  Midnight  was  come,  when  every  vital  thing 

With  sweet,  sound  sleep  their  weary  limbs  did  rest  ] 

The  beasts  were  still,  the  little  birds  that  sing, 
Now  sweetly  slept  beside  their  mother's  breast, 
The  old  and  all  were  shrouded  in  their  nest ; 

The  waters  calm,  the  cruel  seas  did  cease, 

The  woods,  the  fields,  and  all  things  held  their  peace. 

The  golden  Stars  were  whirl'd  amid  their  race, 
And  on  the  Earth  did  laugh  with  twinkling  light  ^ 

When  each  thing  nestled  in  his  resting  place. 
Forgot  Day's  pains  with  pleasure  of  the  Night : 
The  hare  had  not  the  greedy  hound  in  sight  ; 

The  fearful  deer  of  death  stood  not  in  doubt ; 

The  partridge  dreamt  not  of  the  falcon's  foot." 

I  have  not  time  to  dwell  at  large  upon  the  merits  of  the 
other  narrative  poets  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  Drayton 
was  a  man  of  real  genius  ;  but,  like,  many  ol  his  contem- 
poraries, he  was  a  bad  economist  of  his  powers.  He 
wasted  them  upon  unworthy  subjects  ;  and  often  exhibits 
feebleness,  on  occasions  where  the  exertion  of  his  bighe.«it 


46  LECTURES   ON 

powers  is  demanded  and  deserved.  AVarner  in  his  "^Z- 
bmi's  England'''  h.ts  preserved  many  of  our  old  national 
tiaditious,  and  embellished  them  with  much  truth,  nature, 
and  siin[ilicity.  The  ballad  stanza,  however,  in  which  he 
writes  becomes  tedious  and  fatiguing,  when  excruciated 
to  the  leiij^th  in  which  he  employs  it.  Chamberlain's 
"  Pharoimida'^  is  a  very  noble  work.  The  characters  are 
dra>vii  an  i  supported  with  great  truth  and  force;  the 
action  of  the  poem  is  eventful  and  interesting,  and  the 
images  bold,  natural,  and  original.  A  very  few  instances 
will  suffice  to  show  how  rich  the  poem  is  in  the  latter  par- 
ticular. Joys  not  yet  mature,  or  consummated,  are  ele- 
gantly said  to  be 

"  Clothed  in  fresh 
Blossoms  of  Hope,  hke  Souls  ere  mix'd  with  flesh  :'■ 

and  Hope  is  styled 

"  That  wanton  bird  that  sings  as  soon  as  hatch'd." 

■  The  agitation  of  Pharonnida.  when  discovered  by  her 
father  with  her  lover's  letter  in  her  hand,  is  thus  de- 
scribed . — 

"  She  stands 
A  burtlien  to  her  trembUng  legs,  her  hands 
Wringing  each  other's  ivory  joints,  her  bright 
Eyes  scattering  their  distracted  beams." 

May  wrote  the  histories  of  Henry  the  Second,  and  o( 
Edward  the  Third,  in  verse.  He  also  translated  the 
"  Georgics''^  of  Virgil,  and  the  "  Pharsalia'^  of  Lucan.  The 
last  is  a  performance  of  great  merit ;  as  is  also  the  conti- 
nuation of  the  poem  to  the  death  of  Julius  Caesar,  by  the 
tra-islator  The  .reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  was  pecu- 
liarly rich  in  poetical  translations.  Fairfax's  Tasso,  whicli 
was  so  long  and  so  strangely  neglected,  is  now  recovering 
its  popularity.  Of  all  the  stiange  caprices  of  the  public 
taste,  there  is  none  more  strange,  than  the  preference 
which  was  given  to  the  rhyue-tagged  prose  of  Hoole, 
over  this  spirited  and  truly  poetical  production  of  Fairfax. 
Chapman's  Homer,  with  all  its  faults,  is  also  a  production 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  49 

oi  great  value  and  interest.  The  "  //irtrt"  is  written  in  the 
cumbrous  and  unwieldy  old  Knglisii  measure  of  fourteen 
syllables,  which,  however,  the  author  had  the  judgment  to 
abandon  in  the  "  Odyssey,''''  for  the  heroic  measure  of  ten. 
The  following  description  from  the  thirteenth  book  of 
the  •'  Iliad,'"  of  Neptune  and  his  chariot,  will,  notwith- 
standing its  occasional  quaintness,  sutficiently  prove  the 
power  and  energy  of  the  translator  : — 

*'  He  took  much  ruth  to  see  the  Greeks  from  Troy  receive  such 

ill, 
And  mightily  incens'd  with  Jove,  stoop'd  straight  from  that 

steep  hill ; 
That  shook  as  he  flew  ofT,  so  liard  his  parting  pressM  the 

height, 
The  woods,  and  ail  the  great  hills  near,  trembled  beneath  the. 

weight 
Of  his  immortal  moving  feet :   three  steps  he  only  took, 
Before  he  far  off  ^Egas  reach'd  ;   but   with  the  fourth  if. 

shook 
With  his  dread  entry.     In  the  depth  of  those  seas  he  did  hold 
His  bright  and  glorious  Palace,  built  of  never-rusting  gold  ; 
And  there  arrived,  he  put  in  coach  his  brazen  footed  steeds. 
All  golden-maned,  and  paced  with  wings,  and  all  in  golden 

weeds 
He  clothed    himself;    the  golden  scourge,  most  elegantly 

done. 
He  took,  and  mounted  to  his  seat,  and  then  the  God  begun 
To  drive  his  chariot  through  the  waves.     From  whiripits 

every  way 
The  whales  exulted  under  him,  and  knew  their  King  ;  the 

Sea 
For  joy  did  open,  and  his  horse  so  light  and  swiftly  flew, 
The  under  axle-tree  of  brass  no  drop  of  water  drew." 

Chapman  is  remarkable  for  translating  literally  the. 
compound  ci)ithets  of  the  Greeks,  which  are  so  very 
striking  and  powerful  in  the  original ;  but  which,  unhap- 
pily, cannot  be  transferred  to  our  language  with  the  same 
felicity.  Pope  calls  .]uno  "the  goddess  of  the  large 
majestic  eyes,"  which  is  certainly  a  somewhat  too  free 
amplification  of  the  original  epithet.  Chapman  more  lite- 
rally, but  I  am  afraid  not  more  happily,  calls  her  "the 
cow-evcd  qu€cn." 

G 


50  LECTtfRES    ON 

Crashaw's  translation  of  Marino's  "  Sospetti  if  Herode^ 
is  the  best,  or,  I  believe,  the  only  version  in  our  language, 
of  a  work  of  singular  beauty  and  originality  ;  to  which 
Milton  is  clearly  indebted  for  hints  for  some  of  tiie  finest 
passages  in  "  Paradise  Lost.""  These  works,  together 
with  Harrington's  Ariosto,  and  other  translations  of  the 
same  period  from  the  classical  and  Italian  poets,  deserve 
to  be  much  better  known  to  the  public,  at  least  in  the 
shape  of  extract  and  specimen.  We  iiave  been  regaled 
with  specimens  of  old  English  ballads,  of  old  English 
metrical  romances,  and  of  old  English  dramatists,  and 
I  hope  that  it  will  not  be  long  before  some  editor  of  con)- 
petent  taste  and  research  will  present  us  with  specimens 
of  the  old  English  translators. 

The  second  great  name  in  the  annals  of  English  poetry 
is  Milton  :  which  is  the  first,  of  course,  I  need  not  say. 
Many  other  poets  have  excelled  him  in  variety  and  versa- 
tility; but  none  ever  approached  him  in  intensity  of  style 
and  thought,  in  unity  of  purpose,  and  in  the  power  and 
grandeur  with  which  he  piles  up  the  single  monument  ot 
genius,  to  which  his  mind  is  for  the  time  devoted.  His 
harp  may  have  but  one  string,  but  that  is  such  a  one,  as 
none  but  his  own  finger  knows  how  to  touch.  "  Paradise 
Losf^  has  itw  inequalities ;  few  feeblenesses.  It  seems 
not  like  a  work  taken  up  and  continued  at  intervals ;  but 
one  continuing  effort ;  lasting,  perhaps,  for  years,  yet 
never  remitted  :  elaborated  with  the  highest  polish,  yet 
with  all  the  marks  of  ease  and  simplicity  in  its  composi- 
tion. To  begin  with  the  least  of  Milton's  merits,  what 
author  ever  knew  how  to 

"  Untwist  all  the  links  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  Harmony," 

as  he  did  'I  Whence  came  his  knowledge  ?  What  rules 
or  system  did  he  proceed  upon,  in  building  up  his  magni- 
ficent stanza  ?  And  what  has  become  of  the  discovery 
which  he  made  ?  for  assuredly  it  has  not  been  preserved 
by  his  successors.  There  is  no  blank  verse  worthy  of  the 
name, — real  verse,  not  measured  prose,  but  the  legitimate 
medium  for  the  expression  of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of 
})oetry,— beyond  the  volumes  of  Milton. 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  51, 

The  peculiar  distinguishing  feature  of  Milton's  poetry 
is  its  suhlimity.  The  sublime  is  reached  by  other  poets 
when  they  excel  themselves,  and  hover  for  a  moment 
amidst  unusual  brightness  ;  but  it  is  Milton's  native  reign. 
When  he  descends,  it  is  to  meet  the  greatness  of  others ; 
ivhen  he  soars,  it  is  to  reach  heights  unattainable  by  any 
but  himself.  The  first  two  books  of  "  Paradise  Losf  are 
one  continuous  effort  of  unihitigated  sublimity.  I  know 
of  no  spot,  or  blemish,  or  inequafity,  or  falling  off,  from  the 
beginning  of  the  first  book  to  the  close  of  the  second ; 
and  then,  how  wonderfully  tine  is  the  contrast,  when  the 
third  book  opens  with  that  inimitably  pathetic  address  to 
Light,  in  which  the  poet  alludes,  with  a  pardonable  ego- 
tism, to  the  calamity  under  which  he  is  himself  suffering  : — 

"Hail  holy  Light!  ofisprins;  of  Heaven  first-born, 
Or  of  th'  eternal  co-eternal  beam  !" 

Because  Milton  is  universally  admitted  to  excel  in  sub- 
limity, some  critics  have  chosen  to  deny  him  jxUhos  :  but 
this  is  the  very  cant  of  criticism,  which  will  insist  upon  it 
that  the  faults  of  every  author  must  balance  his  excel- 
lencies, and  which  delights  in  nothing  but  antithesis  Thus 
Sh  ikspeare,  we  are  told,  is  a  great  but  irregular  genius ; 
.Tonson  is  a  powerful  but  a  rough  and  coarse  writer ;  and 
Miiton  is  a  sublime  but  not  a  pathetic  poet :  whereas  the 
plain  fact,  obvious  to  all  who  take  the  trouble  to  examine 
it,  is,  tliat  Shakspeare  is  not  an  irregular  genius,  that 
.Tonson  is  not  a  rough  or  coarse  writer,  that  Milton  is  a 
pathetic  poet,  and  a  writer  of  powerful,  of  tremendous 
pathos.  - 

Need  I,  to  prove  my  last  assertion,  do  more  than  direct 
your  attention  to  Adam's  lamint  after  his  iall ;  to  Eve's 
farewell  to  Paradise  ;  or  to  Satan,  when  about  to  adilress 
his  adherents,  and  endeavouring  to  assume  the  tone  and 
aspect  of  a  god,  bursting  involuntarily  into  tears, — "  tears 
such  as  angels  shed," — as  the  remembrance  of  the  height 
from  which  he  has  fallen,  forces  itself  upon  his  memory, 
and  compels  this  evidence  of  his  weakness.  Milton's 
descriptive  powers  are  also  of  the  highest  order.  Whether 
he  paints  landscape  or  history,  it  is  with  the  pencil  of  a 
master.     The   burning    lake,   the   bowers  of    Paradise, 


53  LECTURES    ON 

Angels  and  Demons,  Humanity  and  Deity,  all  are  por- 
trayed with  unerring  fidelity  and  truth.  There  are  indeed 
few  things  by  which  a  writer  of  real  genius  is  more  easily 
known,  than  by  his  descriptions.  This  is  the  most  diffi- 
cult and  the  most  delightful  chord  of  the  poet's  harp  ;  and 
there  is  perhaps  nothing  in  the  whole  range  of  })oetry 
which  gives  so  much  unmixed  pleasure,  as  that  descriptive 
of  natural  objects;  while,  at  the  same  time,  in  nothing  is  a 
depraved  taste,  or  a  defect  of  genius,  sooner  discovered,  or 
more  intolerable.  A  great  fault  into  which  descriptive 
writers  too  commonly  fall,  is  the  vagueness  and  indistinct- 
ness of  their  pictures  r  they  have  no  specific  likeness. 
Every  thing  is  described  in  generals.  No  new  ideas  are 
conveyed  to  the  mind  :  but  a  dim  and  shadowy  phantoni 
seems  to  haunt  the  brain  of  the  writer.  This  arises,  either 
from  ignorance  of  the  objects  described,  or  from  a  want  of 
taste  to  seize  and  appropriate  their  characteristic  features. 
Whoever  enjoys  but  faint  and  imperfect  conceptions  him- 
self, must  fail  in  presenting  any  very  vivid  or  stiking  pic- 
tures to  others.  If  we  were  to  cause  the  representations 
of  many  of  our  modern  poets  to  be  faithfully  transferred 
to  the  canvass,  we  should  quickly  discover  how  defective 
and  unnatural,  how  utterly  shapeless  and  monstrous,  some 
of  their  most  celebrated  delineations  are. 

Opposed  to  this  lault,  is  another  equally  fatal,  which 
descends  so  minutely  and  curiously  into  particulars,  nei- 
ther governed  I  y  taste  in  the  selection,  or  judgment  in 
the  appropriation  of  circumstances,  that,  instead  of  a  noble 
picture,  we  are  presented  with  a  piece  of  fantastical  patch- 
work. Such  writeis  stand  in  much  the  same  relation  to 
the  masters  of  descriptive  poetry,  as  a  book  of  the  roads 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Claude's  most  celebrated  scenes, 
to  his  enchanting  paintings.  The  following  extrabt  from 
Cowley  will  sufficiently  illustrate  what  1  mean.  It  is  a 
description  of  the  Angel  Gabriel,  as  he  appeared  tn 
David  : — 

"  He  took  for  skin,  a  cloud  most  soft  and  bright, 
'J'liat  eretlie  mid-day  Sun  pierced  through  with  light, 
Upon  his  cheeks  a  lively  blush  he  spread, 
Wash'd  from  the  Morning's  beauties'  deepest  red_; 


ENGLISH    POETUV.  5S 

A  harmless  flaming  meteor  shone  for  hair, 
And  fell  adown  his  shoulders  with  loose  care  ; 
He  cuts  out  a  silk  mantle  from  the  skies, 
Where  the  must  sprightly  azure  pleased  the  eyes  ; 
This  he  with  starry  vapours  sprinkles  all. 
Took  in  their  prime,  ere  they  grow  ripe  and  fall ; 
Of  a  new  rainbow  ere  it  fret  or  fade, 
The  choicest  piece  cut  oil",  a  scart  is  made." 

Dr.  Johnson  justly  says,  that  "  Cowley  could  not  let  us 
go  till  he  had  related  where  Gabriel  got  first  his  skin,  and 
then  his  mantle,  then  hi.^  lace,  and  then  his  searl,  and  re- 
lated it  in  the  term>  of  the  mercer  and  tailor."  But  how 
happily,  on  the  contrary,  has  Milton  described  the  same 
object,  "  a  Seraph  winged  ;" — 

"  Six  wings  he  wore  to  shade 
His  lineaments  divine.     The  pair  that  clad 
Ejch  shoulder  broad,  came  mantling  o'er  his  breast 
With  regal  ornament  ;   the  middle  pair 
Girt  like  a  starry  zone  his  waist,  and  round, 
Skirted  his  loins  and  thiglis  with  downy  gold. 
And  colours  dipt  in  heaven  ;   tlie  third  Ins  feet, 
Sliadow'd  from  cither  heel  with  feather'd  mail. 
Sky-tinctured  grain      Like  Maia's  son  he  stood, 
And  shook  his  plumes,  that  heavenly  fragrance  fiU'd 
The  circuit  wide."' 

The  same  immortal  master  has  touched  with  a  yet  finer 
and  inore  delicate  pencil,  the  persons  of  our  first  parents 
in  Paradise  : — 

•'  Two  of  far  nobler  shape,  erect  and  tali, 
Godlike  '-rcct.  will)  native  honour  clad, 
In  naked  majoi-ty,  seein'd  lords  of  all  ; 
And  worthy  seem'd  ;   for  in  tlicir  Uxjks  divine 
'J'he  image  of  their  glorious  Maker  shone  ; 
'J'ruth,  wisdom,  sanctitiidc  severe  and  pure. 
Severe,  but  in  true  filial  freedom  placed. 
Whence  true  autlK^ritv  in  men  ;  thouoh  both 
Not  equal,  as  their  sex  not  equal  seem'd  : 
]''or  contemplation  he,  and  valour  form'd  ; 
For  softness  she,  and  sweet  attractive  grace ; 
He  for  (lod  onlv,  she  for  God  in  him. 


54  LECTURES    ON 

His  fair  large  front,  and  eye  sublime,  declared 
Absolute  rule;  and  hyacinthine  locks 
Hound  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 
Clustering,  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad  r. 
She  as  a  veil,  down  to  her  slender  waist, 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore 
Dishcveird,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  waved. 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils." 

Cowley  is  one  of  the  earliest  names  of  eminence  in  (he 
history  of  English  lyrical  poeti),  and  it  is  prineij)ally  in 
reading  his  odes  that  we  lament  those  metaphysical  con- 
ceits, which  ohscure  the  reputation  of  a  genius  of  first-rate 
ability.  But  "  the  light  that  led  astray  was  light  from 
heaven."  His  very  faults  are  the  offspring  of  genius ; 
they  are  the  exuberances  of  a  mind  "o'er-informed  with 
meaning ;"  the  excrescences  ot  a  tree,  whose  v/aste  foliage, 
if  properly  pruned  and  arranged,  would  form  an  immor- 
tal wreath  on  the  brows  of  any  humbltr  genius.  But  he 
now  claims  our  notice  in  another  character,  that  of  a 
narrative  poet,  as  the  author  of  the  "  Davideis ;  or,  the 
Troubles  of  David,'^  a  sacred  poem ;  a  character  in 
which  it  must  be  confessed  he  appears  to  far  less  advan- 
tage than  as  a  lyrical  poet.  The  "  Davideis*^  is  much 
more  disfigured  by  far-fetched  conceits  than  even  his 
odes;  and  they  offend  still  more  against  good  taste,  when 
we  find  them  mixed  up  with  the  sobriety  of  narration,  than 
when  they  mingle  in  his  Pmdaric  eestacies.  The  narra- 
tive itself  is  also  heavy  and  uninteresting  ;  there  are  no 
strongly  drawn  or  predontinating  characters;  and  the 
allegorical  personages,  who  are  the  chief  actors,  do  not, 
of  course,  excite  any  strong  interest,  or  greaily  arrest 
the  attention.  Still  there  are  man\  stattered  beauties 
throughout  the  poem  ;  many  original  ideas,  and  much 
brilliant  versification.  The  following  is  very  sweetly  ex- 
pressed : — 

"  Upon  their  Palace'  top,  beneath  a  row 
Of  lemon  trees,  which  there  did  proudly  grow, 
And  with  bright  stores  of  golden  fruit  repay 
The  light  they  drank  from  the  Sun's  neighbouring  ray. 
A  small  but  artful  Paradise,  they  walk'd, 
And  hand  in  hand,  sad,  gentle  things  they  talk'd." 


ENGLISH    POETKY.  55 

The  account  of  the  Creation  is  also  full  of  eloquence 
and  poetry  : — 

"  They  sung  how  God  spoke-out  the  World's  vast  ball, 
From  nothing  ;  and  froni  now  hero  call'd  forth  all. 
No  Nature  yet,  or  place  for  't  to  possess, 
But  an  unbottoniM  gulf  of  emptiness  ; 
Full  of  himself,  th'  Almighty  sate,  his  own 
Palace,  and  without  solitude,  alone. 
But  he  was  goodness  whole,  and  all  things  wilfd  ; 
"Which  ere  they  were,  his  active  word  fulfill'd  : 
And  their  astonish'd  heads  o'  th'  sudden  rear'd  ; 
An  unshaped  land  of  something  first  appear'd, 
Confessing  its  new  being,  and  undrest. 
As  if  it  stepp'd  in  haste  before  the  rest  ; 
let,  buried  in  this  matter's  darksome  womb, 
Lay  the  rich  seeds  6f  every  thing  to  come  ; 
From  hence  the  cheerful  flame  leap'd  up  so  high, 
Close  at  its  heels  the  nimble  air  did  fly  ; 
Dull  Earth  with  his  own  weight  did  downwards  pierce 
To  the  fix'd  navel  of  the  Universe, 
And  was  quite  lost  in  waters  ;  till  God  said 
To  the  proud-  Sea,  '  Shrink  in  your  insolent  head  ; 
See  how  the  gaping  Earth  has  made  you  place  '.' 
That  durst  not  murmur,  but  shrunk  in  apace: 
Since  when,  his  bounds  are  set  ;  at  which  in  vain 
He  foams  and  rages,  and  turns  back  again. 
With  richer  stufl'he  bade  Heaven's  fabric  shine, 
And  from  him  a  quick  spring  of  light  divine 
Swell'd  up  the  Sun,  from  whence  his  cherishing  flame 
Fills  the  whole  world,  like  him  from  whom  it  came. 
He  smooth'd  the  rough  cast  Moon's  imperfect  mould, 
And  comb'd  her  beamy  locks  with  sacred  gold  : 
'  Be  thou,'  said  he,  '  Queen  of  the  mournful  Night !' 
And  as  he  spake,  she  rose,  clad  o'er  in  light, 
With  thousand  Stars  attending  in  her  train, 
With  her  they  rise,  with  her  they  set  again. 
Then  Herbs  peep'd  forth,  now  Trees  admiring  stood, 
And  smelling  Flowers  painted  the  infant  wood  ; 
Then  flocks  of  Birds  through  the  glad  air  did  flee, 
Joyful,  and  safe  before  Man's  luxury  , 
Singing  their  Maker  in  their  untaught  lays; 
Nay  the  mute  Fish  witness  no  less  his  praise ; 
For  those  he  made,  and  clothed  with  silver  scales, 
From  Minnows  to  those  living  islands,  Whales. 


56  LECTURES    ON 

Boasts,  too,  wore  liis  command  ;  wliat  could  lie  more  ? 
Yos,  Man  ho  could,  the  bond  of  all  before  ; 
In  him  he  all  thinj^s  with  strang-e  order  hiirlM, 
In  him  that  full  abridgnjent  of  the  World  !" 

There  are  lilcewlse  many  beautiful  lyrical  pieces  intro- 
duced. The  following  in  which  Davit  1  speaks  of  his  love 
for  Saul's  daughter  is  a  perfect  gem  : — 

"  Awake,  awake  my  Lyre  ! 
And  tell  thy  silent  master's  humble  tale, 
In  sounds  that  may  prevail ; 

Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire  : 
Though  so  exalted  slie, 
And  I  so  lowly  be, 
Tell  her,  such  different  notes  make  all  thy  harmony  I 

Hark  !  how  the  strings  awake  ! 
And  though  the  moving  hand  approach  not  near^ 
Themselves  with  awful  fear 

A  kind  of  numerous  trembling  make  : 
Now  all  thy  forces  try. 
Now  all  thy  charms  apply, 
Hevenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquests  of  her  eye. 

Weak  Lyre  !  thy  virtue  sure 
Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only  found 
To  cure,  but  not  to  wound  ; 

And  she  to  wound  but  not  to  cure: 
Too  weak  too  wilt  thou  prove 
My  passion  to  remove. 
Physic  to  other  ills,  thou  'rt  nourishment  to  Love- 
Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre  ! 
For  thou  can'st  never  tell  my  humble  tale, 
In  sounds  that  will  prevail  ; 

Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire  ; 
All  thy  vain  mirth  lay  by, 
Bid  thy  strings  silent  lie  ; 
Sleep,  sleep  again,  ray  Lyre  !  and  let  thy  master  die  !'• 

Unhappily,  however,— 

"  Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass. 
Their  virtues  we  write  in  water  ;" — 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  S'Si 

The  '"■  Davideis^^  is  now  seldom  quoted  ;  and  when  it 
is  noticed,  it  is  not  for  the  purpose  of  recalling  to  our 
recollection  the  brilliant  passages  which  1  have  just  cited. 
If  the  poem  live  at  all  in  the  memory  of  the  general 
reader,  it  is  by  reason  of  two  ridiculous  lines,  descriptive 
of  the  sword  of  Goliath  : — 

"  A  sword  so  great,  that  it  was  only  fit 
To  cut  off  his  great  head  that  came  with  it !" 

In  discussing  the  merits  of  our  remaining  narrative 
poets,  I  shall  be  necessarily  brief.  Davenant's  "  Gondi' 
hert^^  is  very  defective  both  in  interest  and  passion.  As  a 
narrative,  it  is  not  entitled  to  any  high  praise ;  though 
there  are  passages  in  it  replete  with  beautiful  imagery,  and 
genuine  and  unaffected  sentiment.  We  have  not,  how- 
ever, space  for  any  quotations  ;  and  Drjden's  " FahleSy^ 
and  his  ^^JEneid,^'  are  too  generally  known  to  need  any. 
That  author's  fame  as  a  narrative  poet  rests  upon  these. 
The  matter  is  all  borrowed.  The  "  Fables''''  are  as  much 
translations  from  Boccacio,  and  Chaucer,  as  his  ^^^nekV^ 
is  from  Virgil.  The  matter,  1  have  said,  is  not  Dryden's, 
but  the  manner  is  all  his  own ;  and  in  that  their  great 
charm  consists.  The  energy,  the  beauty,  the  power,  the 
majesty,  and  the  delicacy  of  his  style  are  unrivalled.  His 
versification  is  even  now,  notwithstanding  the  elforts  of 
his  successors.  Pope,  Goldsmith,  Campbell,  and  Byron, 
the  noblest  and  most  perfect  in  our  language.  As  Milton 
in  blank  verse,  so  Dryden  in  the  heroic  rhymed  measure, 
is  without  a  competitor  or  even  an  approxiinator. 

"  Waller  was  smooth,  but  Dryden  taught  to  join 
The  varying  verse,  the  fUll  resounding  line. 
The  long  majestic  marcii,  and  energy  divine.'' 

The  translations  of  Rowe,  Pitt,  Pope,  and  Mickle, 
have  enriched  our  language  with  the  noblest  monuments 
of  the  genius  of  foreign  nations.  To  Rowe^and  Pitt  may 
be  assigned  the  merit  of  lldelity,  and  of  ^considerable 
powers  in  versification.  Pope  and  Mickle,  the  former 
especially,  are  very  splendid  writers  :  though  the  latter 
must  rank  among  the  most  unfaithful  of  translators.     Of 

H 


58  LECTUKES    OK 

Pope  I  have  already  spoken  at  some  lengtli,  and  we  sliall 
hereafter  have  occasion  to  consider  his  merits  as  a  didac- 
tic and  descriptive  poet.  I  shall,  therelbre,  not  now 
enter  into  any  discussion  of  the  subject. 

Glover's  "  Leonidas'''  I  have  also  already  noticed  ;  and 
the  epics  of  VVilkie  and  Blackmore  are  really  not  worth 
our  attention.  The  latter  has  made  himself  immortal  by 
two  memorable  lines,  which  will  suffice  as  a  specimen  of 
his  merits : — 

"  A  painted  vest  Prince  Vortigern  had  on, 
Which  from  a  naked  Pict  his  grandsire  won  i" 

The  authenticity  of  the  poems  ascribed  to  Ossian,  is  a 
subject  full  of  doubt  and  intricacy,  into  the  mazes  of  whicij 
it  is  not  my  intention  to  enter.  It  is  difficult  to  believe 
that  poems  formed  so  nearly  upon  the  Aristotlean  rules, 
should  have  been  produced  in  an  age,  and  among  a  peo- 
ple where  those  rules  were  totally  unknown :  it  is  still 
more  difficult  to  believe  that  such  poems,  never  having 
been  written,  should  have  been  preserved  through  so  many 
ages,  by  oral  tradition  alone  :  but,  perhaps,  an  attentive 
reader  would  declare  that,  all  circumstances  considered, 
it  would  be  the  greatest  difficulty  of  all  to  believe,  that  the 
whole  is  a  modern  invention.  The  absence  of  all  traces 
of  religion,  however,  in  these  poems,  is  a  very  sin- 
gular fact,  and  strikes  me  as  a  strong  argument  against 
their  authenticity  ;  as  the  poetical  compositions  of  all. 
other  nations  are  so  closely  connected  with  their  mytho- 
logy. The  rocky  steeps  of  Morven  too,  do  not  seem  to 
be  a  very  appropriate  scene  for  the  exploits  of  "  car-borne''^ 
heroes ;  and  Mr.  Wordsworth  adds  his  own  personal  ex- 
perience, and  it  is  a  high  authority,  against  the  proba- 
bility of  the  genuineness  of  Ossian's  Poems,  by  saying, 
that  no  man  who  has  been  born  and  bred  up  among  moun- 
tain scenery,  as  Ossian  was,  would  describe  it  as  he  has 
done.  This  objection,  however,  cuts  both  ways.  These 
poems  were  written,  if  not  by  Ossian,  by  Macpherson, 
and  Macpherson  was  himself  a  highlander.  I  have  also 
heard  more  than  one  landscape  painter  of  eminence,  well 
•acquainted  with  the  scenery  of  the  poems, — and  such  evi- 
dence 1  cannot  help  considering  of  considerable  weight, — 


bear  testimony  to  the  power  and  fidelity  of  Ossian*s  de- 
scriptions.    The  beauty  and  merit  of  the  poems  is,  how- 
ever, a  question  quite  independent  of  their  authenticity. 
For  myself,  I  confess  that  the   most  popular  and   most 
often  quoted  passages  are  not  my  greatest    favourites. 
Ossian's  most  laboured  efforts  do  not  strike  mc  as  his  best. 
It  is  in  a  casual  expression,  in  a  single  simple  incident, 
that  he  often  startles  us  by  the  originality  and  force  of  his 
ideas.     What  a  picture  of  desolation  does  he  force  upon 
our  imagination  when  describing  the  ruins  of  Balclutha 
by  that  one  unlaboured,  but  powerful  incident: — "The 
fox  looked  out  from  the  window."     The  ghost  of  Crugal, 
the  dim  and  shadowy  visitant  from  another  world,  is  also 
painted  by  a  single  stroke  of  the  pencil : — "  The  stars 
dim  twinkled  through  his  form  :"  and  the  early  death  of 
Cormac  is  prophesied  in  a  simile  as  original  as  it  is  pow- 
erful : — "  Death  stands  dim  behind  thee,  like  the  darkened 
half  of  the  moon  behind  its  growing  light."     Had  Ossian, 
or   the   author  of  the   pieces   ascribed  to  him,   written 
nothing  but  the  three  passages  which  I  have  just  cited, 
he  would  have  proved  himself  a  genuine  poet. 

The  grand  characteristic  of  Ossian  is  pathos,  as  that  of. 
Homer  is  invention,  and  that  of  Milton  is  sublimity. 
Whether  he  describes  scenery,  or  delineates  character,  or 
narrates  events,  tenderness  is  the  predominating  fieeling 
excited  in  the  mind.  His  battle-pieces  impress  us  more 
with  compassion  for  the  vanquished,  than  admiration  for 
the  victor.  We  feel  more  sympathy  for  the  sutferings  of 
his  heroines,  than  we  do  of  delight  at  their  beauty.  His 
heroes,  if  young,  are  cut  otf  before  their  fame  is  achieved  ; 
or  if  old,  have  survived  their  strength  and  prowess.  Even 
Fingal  himself,  is  at  last  shown  to  us  as  a  feeble  ghost, 
lamenting  the  loss  of  his  mortal  fame  and  vigour. 

I  have  placed  Chatterton  among  the  narrative  poets, 
although  he  also  wrote  dramatic,  lyrical,  and  didactic 
pieces.  Perhaps  there  never  was  a  more  slender  veil  of 
forgery  attempted,  than  that  which  he  threw  around  his 
pretended  ancient  productions.  He  has  written  in  the 
language  of  no  one  age,  but  in  a  piebald  diction  of  all  ; 
made  up  of  the  phrases  and  idioms  of  various  periods,  and 
the  reader  has  often  nothing  to  do,  but  to  stri[)  his  verses 
of  their  antitpie  spelling,  and  he  iinds  the  language  pre- 


60  LECTURES    ON 

cisely  that  which  is  used  in  the  present  day.     Tal^e  for 
instance,  the  opening  of  the  song  Ella  : — 

"  When'  Freedom  drest  in  blood  stain'd  vest, 
'f  o  every  land  her  war-song  sung  ; 
f  '  Upon  her  head  wild  weeds  were  spread. 

A  gory  anlace  by  her  hung.'' 

The  poems  themselves  bear  internal  evidence  of  then' 
being  the  productions  of  a  boy  ;  of  a  marvellous  boy 
indeed,  but  still  of  a  boy.  There  are  no  traces  of  expe- 
rience, of  long  observation,  of  a  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  indeed  of  acquirement  of  any  sort.  Of  strong 
natural  powers,  of  talent,  of  genius,  every  page  furnishes 
us  with  abundant  instances.  Chatterton's  forte  I  think 
was  pathos ;  and  had  not  his  mortal  career  closed  so 
prematurely,  he  would  probablyfhave  devoted  himself  to 
lyrical  poetry.  What  he  has  left  behind  him,  is  full  of 
genius  ;  but  full  of  inequalities  and  faults.  We  have 
hardly  sufficient  data  to  enable  us  to  judge  what  Chatter- 
ton's  real  character,  moral  or  literary, — and  it  is  difficult 
to  separate  them  in  our  inquiry,— was,  or  would  hare  been, 
I,  for  one,  cannot  help  thinking,  that  the  vices  of  the  for- 
mer were  adventitious,  and  that  the  imperfections  of  the 
latter  would  have  been  obviated,  or  removed.  His  tale  is 
but  half  told.  Had  not  the  curtain  dropped  so  abruptly 
on  the  hero  of  the  drama,  succeeding  scenes  might  have 
shown  him  triumphing  over  all  his  follies,  and  atoning  for 
all  his  faults.  His  ruling  passion  was  the  love  of  fame. 
The  progress  of  Fame  is  like  the  course  of  the  Thames, 
which  in  its  native  fields  will  scarcely  float  the  toy-ship 
which  an  infant's  hand  has  launched,  but  when  it  has 
once  visited  the  metropolis,  mighty  vessels  ride  upon  its 
bosom,  and  it  rolls  on  irresistibly  to  the  ocean.  This 
Chatterton  knew  :  and,  in  a  blind  confidence  on  his  own 
unaided  powers,  rushed  to  the  capital  in  pursuit  of  fame 
and  competence.  The  result  we  all  know  was  neglect, 
penury,  and  self-destruction. 

Narrative  poetry  has  of  late  been  a  favourite  and 
popular  study,  and  has  employed  the  pens  of  all  the  most 
eminent  of  our  living  writers.  Although  the  limits  which 
1  have  prescribed  to  myself  in  these  lectures,  do  not  per- 


ENGLISH    poetry;  61 

mit  to  discuss  their  merits,  I  may  be  allowed  to  say,  that 
the  narrative  writers  of  the  present  day,  have  done  much 
to  wean  the  public  taste  from  the  meretricious  school  by 
which  it  was  directed  half  a  century  ago,  and  bring  it 
back  to  a  wholesome  appreciation  of  the  powers  of  those 
genuine  old  English  poets,  whose  teacher  was  nature,  and 
whose  study  was  the  human  heart. 


62  r.KCTURES    ON 


LECTURE  THE  THIRD. 


DRAMATIC    POETRY. 

Origin  of  the  Drama  : — Old  English  Mysteries  and  Moralities  ; 
— Gof'boduc  and  Gavtmer  Gurtotis  Needle^  the  first  English 
Tragedy  and  Comedy  : — The  Predecessors  of  Shakspeare  : 
— Dramatic  Writers  of  the  Reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James 
the  First  : — Shakspeare  : — Dissertation  on  the  excellence 
of  his  Female  Characters  and  Clowns  : — Jonson  : — The 
Beauty  of  the  Lyrical  parts  of  Jonson's  Dramas  : — Ilia  Tra- 
gedy of  Catiline : — Cartwright : — Beaumont  and  Fletcher  : 
— Massinger  : — Ford  and  Webster. 

My  last  lecture  treated  of  the  epic  and  narrative  poets ; 
I  shall  now  briefly  review  the  merits  of  the  dramatic 
poets  who  flourished  previous  to  the  restoration.  Al- 
though, iu  a  period  of  elegance  and  refinement,  there  is 
not  a  more  certain  '•  sign  of  the  times"  than  a  taste  for 
dramatic  entertainments,  yet  the  fact  is,  that  these  had 
their  origin  in  the  rudest,  and  most  uninformed  afes  of 
society.  In  ancient  Greece,  Thespis,  the  father  of  tra- 
gedy, represented  his  Dramas  on  a  sort  of  cart,  or  move- 
able stage,  which  was  drawn  from  place  to  place ;  and 
his  actors  sang  and  danced  alternately,  with  their  faces 
smeared  with  wine- lees  : — 

"  Ignotum  Tragical  genus  invenisse  camosnar; 
Dicitur,  et  plaustris  vexisse  poemata  Tliespis, 
Quae  canerent  agerentque  peruncti  foecibus  ora." 

HoR.  Art.  Poet. 

In  England,  in  the  same  manner,  the  original  of  those 
magnificent  structures  which  are  now  dedicated  to  the 
dramatic  muses,  were  moveable  pageants,  drawn  about 
upon  wheels  ;  after  which,  the  court-yards  of  inns  and 
hostelries  were  chosen  for  dramatic  representations  ;  the 
floor  forming  what  we  now  call  the  pit  of  the  theatre. 


ENGLISH    tOETRi.  Q3 

and  the  balconies,  or  galleries  around,  being  occupied  as 
the  boxes  and  the  stage  ;  and  public  theatres  do  not 
appear  to  have  been  regular!)  erected  till  about  the  begin- 
ning of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  The  drama,  it  is 
also  worthy  of  remark,  although  it  has  become  the  theme 
of  constant  depreciation  among  modern  puritans,  as  it 
was  formerly  among  the  ancient  philosophers,  had  its 
origin  in  religious  ceremonies.  The  hymns,  or  odes, 
sung  in  honour  of  Bacchus,  and  other  deities  in  Greece, 
and  the  mysteries  and  moralities  of  monkish  times  in 
England,  were  the  rude  foundations  on  which  were  erect- 
ed the  splendid  superstructures  of  ^schylus,  and  Euri- 
pides, and  Sophocles  ;  of  Shakspeare,  of  Fletcher,  and 
of  Otway.  In  the  houses  of  the  great  it  was  as  much 
the  custom  of  the  chaplain  to  compose  plays  for  the  fami- 
lies, as  it  now  is  to  write  sermons  ;  and  Sunday  was  a 
day  frequently  appropriated  for  the  representation  of  dra- 
matic entertainments.  Modern  readers  shudder  at  the 
impiety  of  the  ancients,  who  represented  their  gods  in 
propria  persona  upon  the  stage,  while  it  is  not  less  true, 
although  less  generally  known,  that  in  our  own  country, 
the  divine  persons  of  the  Trinity,  the  good  and  evil  an- 
gels, the  prophets,  and  the  apostles,  were  in  the  same 
manner  personated  in  the  English  theatres.     • 

The  first  regular  comedy  which  appeared  in  England 
was  *^ Gammer  Gurtori's  A^eedle.""  The  precise  time  of 
its  representation  is  unknown,  but  an  edition  of  it  is  said 
by  Chetwood,  to  have  been  printed  in  1551  ;  and  the 
copy  which  Dodsley  used  for  his  collection  of  old  plays 
was  printed  in  1575.  "In  this  play,"  says  Hawkins, 
"  there  is  a  vein  of  familiar  humour,  and  a  kind  of  gro- 
tesque imagery,  not  unlike  some  parts  of  Aristophanes ; 
but  without  those  graces  of  language  and  metre,  for  which 
the  Greek  comedian  is  so  eminently  distinguished." 
There  is  certainly  much  whim  and  wit  in  many  of  the 
situations ;  and  the  characters,  although  rudely,  are  very 
forcibly  delineated.  The  plot  is  simple  and  coarse 
enough.  Gammer  Gurton  has  lost  her  needle,  and,  just 
when  she  despairs  of  ever  finding  it,  it  is  discovered  stick- 
ing to  part  of  her  servant  Hodge's  breeches,  which  she 
liad  been  lately  employed  in  mending.  The  fine  old  song, 
beginning  •'  Back  and  sides',  go  bare,  go  bare,"  with  which 


U4  LKCTUHES   ON 

the  second  act  of  this  play  opens,  is  of  itself  sulhcient 
to  rescue  it  from  oblivion. 

Lonl  Buckhurst's  "  Gorhoduc'''  is  the  first  regular  tra- 
gedy which  ever  appeared  in  England.  The  plot  is  meagre 
and  uninteresting ;  the  diction  cumbrous  and  heavy  ;  and 
the  characters  ill  conceived,  and  hastily  drawn.  The  dawn 
of  English  tragedy  was,  therefore,  as  gloomy  as  its  meridian 
was  splendid.     George  Peele,  the  author  of"  The  Loves 
of  King  David  and  Fair  Bethsade,^'  was  a  writer  of  a 
very  different  stamp  :  and,  although  not  possessing  much 
force  and  originality,  there  is  a  vein  of  pathos  and  unaf- 
fected feeling  in  this  play,  and  a  sweetness  and  flow  of 
versification,  which  we  look  for  in  vain  in  the  writings  of 
his  contemporaries.     Lily,  who  turned  the  heads  of  the 
people  by  his  Euphuism,  which  has  been  so  happily  ridi- 
culed by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  character  of  Sir  Piercie 
Shafton,  in  the  "  Monastery,"  was  nevertheless  an  author 
of  distinguished  merit ;  and  in  his  "  Cupid  and    Cam- 
'paspe,''^  especially,  we  find  touches  of  genuine  poetry,  and 
unsophisticated   nature.      "  The    Spanish    Tragedy,   or, 
Hieronimo  is  mad  again,"  by  Thomas  Kyd,  is  valuable  for 
one  scene  only,  which  is  supposed  to  have  been  interpo- 
lated by  a  later  hand,  and  has  been  attributed  by  various 
commentators  to  Jonson,  to  Webster,  and  to  Shakspeare, 
It  is  not  unworthy  of  either  of  those  writers  ;  but  is  most 
probably  the  property  of  the  first,  to  whom,  as  has  been 
ascertained  by  a  discovery  made  a  iew  years  since  at 
Dulwich  College,  two  sundry  payments  were  made  by  the 
theatre,  for  additions  to  this  tragedy.     Hieronimo,  whose 
son  has  been  murdered,  goes  distracted,  and   wishes  a 
painter  to  represent  the  fatal  catastrophe  upon  canvass. 
He  finds  that  the  artist  is  suffering  under  a  bereavement 
similar  to  his  own ;  and  there  is   something  powerfully 
affecting  in  the  following  dialogue  : 

<'  The  Paintek  enters. 

Paint.  God  bless  you,  Sir  ! 

Hieron.  Wherefore  ?  why,  thou  scornful  villain ! 
How,  where,  or  by  what  means  should  I  be  blest  ? 

Isab.  What  would  you  have,  good  fellow  ? 

Paint.  Justice,  madam. 

Hieron.  Oh !  ambitious  felloV\^,  would'st  tJiou  have  tiiat 
That  lives  not  in  the  world  "^ 


ENISLISH    POETRV^.  IJS^ 

Why  all  tiie  undelved  minds  cannot  buy 

An  ounce  of  justice  ;   'tis  a  jewel  so  inestiinal)le. 

1  tel!  thee,  God  has  engrossed  all  justice  in  his  hand, 

And  there  is  none  but  what  comes  from  him. 

,    Paint.  Oh !  then  1  see  that  God  must  right  me  for  my  mur- 

'.lerM  son  ! 

Ilieron.  How!  was  thy  son  murder'd  ? 

Paint.  Ay,  Sir  ;   no  man  did  hold  a  son  so  dear.  .  / 

Ilieron.   What!   not  as  thine  ?  That 's  a  lie  -  '     •. 

As  massy  as  the  earth  !  I  had  a  son, 

Whose  least  unvalued  hair  did  weigh  ' 

A  thousand  of  thy  son's  !  and  he  was  murder'd  1  ',  : 

Paint.  Alas!  Sir,  1  had  no  more  but  he. 

Hieron.  Nor  I,  nor  I  ;  but  this  same  one  of  mine 
Was  worth  a  legion." 

The  nature  and  simplicity  of'  this  scene  is  worth  aii 
the  ambitious  imagery,  and  rhetorical  ornaments  which 
modern  authors  lavish  upon  their  dramas.  It  rcrahids  us 
of  that  fine  burst  of  natural  passion  of  Lear  : — 

'■  Lear.  Didst  thou  give  all  to  thy  daughters  ?  - 

Kent.  He  hath  no  daughters,  Sir. 

Lear.  Death,  traitor !  nothing  could  have  reduced  nature 
To  such  a  lowness,  but  his  unkind  daughters." 

But  by  far  the  mightiest  dramatic  genius  who  preceded 
Shakspeare,  was  Christopher  Marlowe.     This  extraordi- 
nary author  is  an  anomaly  in  literature.     With  innume- 
rable faults,  and   those  of  the  worst  kind,  frequently  dis- 
playing turgidlty  and  bombast  in  his  tragic  scenes,  and 
buffoonery  and  grossness  in  his  comic  ones,  he  never- 
theless, evinces  in  many  places,  not  only  powerful  genius, 
but  severe  taste  and    fastidious  judgment.     Nothing  can 
be  worse  than  "  LusCs  Dominion,'''  and  "  The  Mighlij 
Tamburluine  ,•"  and  nothing  can  be  finer  than  many  parts 
of  "  Edward  the  Second,''^  and  ''Doctor  Faitsttis.^'     Mr, 
Charles  Lamb  says,  truly,  that  the  former  tragedy  fur- 
nished hints  which  Shakspeare  scarcely  improved  in  his 
•'  Richard  the  Second.^'     We  may  say  the  same  thing  of 
the  latter  in  reference  to  Goethe,  and  his  "  Faust.'''     The 
tragedy  of  Go<;the  is  more  connected,  and  better  sustained 
throughout,  than  that  of  Marlowe.     It  is  not  chargeable 

I 


l>^  LECTURES    ON 

with  the  same  inequalities,  and  keeps  up  the  character  of 
the  hero,  as  a  soul  lost  by  the  thirst  after,  knowledge, 
instead  of  representing  him,  as  the  English  author  too 
often  does,  in  the  light  of  a  vulgar  conjurer  indulging  in 
tricks  of  legerdemain  ;  though  we  doubt  whether  therei 
is  any  thing  in  the  German  play,  which  approaches  the 
sublimity  and  awl'ulness  of  the  last  scene  in  "  Doctor 
Fauslus.^' 

At  length  the  great  literary  era  of  Elizabeth  dawned 
upon  Britain  ;  and  in  the  dramatic  annals  of  the  nation, 
we  no  longer  fmd  a  few  stars  faintly  twinkling  amidst  the 
surrounding  darkness,  but  a  magnificent  constellation, 
composed  of  Shakspeare,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Jonson, 
Ford,  Webster,  Massinger,  Rowley,  Chapman,  Middleton, 
Dekker,  Tourneur,  Shirley,  and  others,  brightening  the 
whole  literature  hemisphere  with  a  blaze  of  glory.  In 
addition  to  those  names,  which  belong  almost  exclusively 
to  dramatic  literature,  we  may  enumerate  those  of  Spen- 
ser, Hall,  Brown,  Drummond,  Sidney,  and  Raleigh,  in 
other  branches  of  poetry.  The  peiiod  during  which 
these  illustrious  men  flourished  has  been  distinguished  by 
the  name  of  Elizabeth,  although  it  is  only  to  the  latter 
part  of  her  reign,  and  to  those  of  her  tv/o  immediate 
successors,  that  most  of  them  properly  belong. 

The  merits  of  Shakspeare  are  now  so  well  and  so 
generally  appreciated,  that  it  can  scarcely  be  necessary 
to  enter  into  any  detail  of  them.  It  is,  however,  extra- 
ordinary, that  in  a  nation  which  has  exulted  so  much  in 
his  genius,  and  has  professed  to  derive  so  much  of  its 
hterary  glory  from  his  fame,  his  merits  should,  until  very 
recently,  have  been  so  imperfectly  known.  Steele,  in  one 
of  the  "  Tatlers,^^  bestows  some  very  high  encomiums  upon 
a  justly  celebrated  passage  in  "  Macbetk^^^  and  then  gives 
a  miserably  erroneous  quotation,  from  some  garbled  stage 
edition,  then  extant. 

The  opinion  which  prevailed  imtil  within  the  last  half 
century,  that  Shakspeare  had  failed  in  his  delineation  of 
female  character,  is  also  a  striking  and  decisive  proof 
of  the  general  ignorance  respecting  the  real  merits  of  our 
immortal  bard.  On  the  stage,  and  in  quotations,  he  was 
well  known,  but  it  is  only  very  recently,  that  readers 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  explore  this  vast  mine  of  intel- 


ENGLISH   POETRY.  67 


-"  .    :1 


lectual  lore  for  themselves ;  and  though  we  now  rank 
those  beautiful  pictures,  both  serious  and  comic,  vvhieh 
the  poet  has  drawn  in  Lady  JMacbeth,  Comtani:e,  Juliety 
Imogen,  Cleopatra,  Rof^nl'md,  and  Beatrice,  as  among  the 
happiest  etfor  >  ol'  his  genius,  jet  man)  years  have  not 
gone  by,  since  t  was  a  po[tular  opinion,  that  his  mind  was 
of  too  masculine  a  stiuctute  to  excel  in  pictures  of  female 
grace  and  loveliness;  and  that  it  was  only  in  his  male 
characters,  that  his  wonderful  genius  developed  itself. 
This  opinion,  too,  was  not  contined  to  the  vulgar  and  un- 
informed. Men  of  taste  and  education  were  content  to 
take  up  the  current  o})inion,  without  examining  its  truth  ; 
and  we  accordingly  find  that  even  Collins,  whose  genius 
in  some  particulars  discovered  a  strong  affinity  to  that  of 
Shakspeare  himself,  in  his  '^Epistle  to  Sir  Thomas  Ilan- 
mer,"  after  eulogizing  the  female  characters  of  Fletcher, 
adds, — 

"  But  stronger  Shakspeare  felt  for  Man  alone." 

In  truth,  Shakspeare's  females  are  creations  of  a  very 
different  stamp  from  those  which  have  been  immediately 
pojular  in  histrionic  records.  Their  sorrows  are  not 
obstreperous  and  theatrical,  but, — 

"  The  still  sad  music  of  Humanity," — 

as  Wordsworth  hath  finely  phrased  it, — is  heard  through^ 
out  all  their  history.    The  poet's  description  of  a  lover, — 

"All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes  ; 
All  adoration,  duly,  and  obedience  ; 
Ail  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience : 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  observance 


3 


will  apply  as  well  to  his  delineations  of  woman.  Siglis, 
tears,  passion,  trial,  and  humility,  are  the  component  parts 
of  her  character;  and  however  the  dramatic  writer  may 
endeavour  to  "  elevate  and  surprise,"  by  j)ursuing  a  dif- 
ferent course,  these  are  the  materials  with  which  nature 
■will  furnish  him  •  and,  if  he  really  wish  to  follow  her,  "to 


68  LECTURES    ON 

this  complexion  he  must  come  at  last."  Sbakspeare  re- 
conciled poetry  and  nature  ;  he  borrowed  her  wildest 
wing  of  romance,  and  yet  stooped  to  the  severest  disci- 
pline of  truth  ;  he  revelled  in  the  impossible,  without  vio- 
lating the  probable  ;  he  preserved  the  unity  of  character, 
while  he  spurned  the  unities  of  time,  place  and  action  ; 
and  combined  propriety,  nature,  truth,  and  feeling,  with 
■wildness,  extravagance,  and  an  unbounded  license  of  ima~ 
gination. 

The  general  cast  of  character  in  Shakspeare's  females 
is  tenderness  and  pathos ;  but  this  is  not  because  our 
author  was  unable  to  depict  woman  in  her  more  dignified 
and  commanding,  though  less  ordinary,  attitude.     Thus, 
there  is  nothing  more  majestic,  and,  we  may  say,  awful, 
on  the  stage,  than  Katharine  defending  herself  against  the 
malice  and  hypocrisy  of  Henry  ;  and  nothing  more  fear- 
ful   and  appalling   than   the    whole    character  of  Ladu 
JMacbeth,   from   the  first  scene    in   which   her    ambition 
is  awakened,   by  the  perusal  of  her    husband's  letter, 
to  the  last,  in  which    we   discover    its  bitter    fruits,   in 
treason,  murder,  and  insanity.     Then  there  is  the  Lady 
Constance,  a  woman,  a  mother,  and  a  princess  ;  seen  in 
all  the  fearful  vicissitudes  of  human  life  ;  hoping,  exulting, 
blessing,  fearing,  weeping,  despairing,  and,  at  last,  dying. 
Shall  we  add  the  Weird  Sisters,  those  "  foul  anomalies,'^ 
in  whom  all  that  is  malignant  and  base  in  the  female  cha- 
racter is  exaggerated  to  an  unearthly  stature,  and  those 
gentler  beings,  such  as  Juliet  and  Desdemona,  who,  with 
frailties  and  imperfections  which  ally  them  to  earth,  yet 
approximate  to  those  superior  and  benevolent  spirits,  of 
whom  we  may  have  such  an  exquisite  picture  in  ^^riel, 
and  the  Fairies,  in  the  "  Midsummer  J^ighVs  Dream .?" 
Cleopatra,  Volumnia,  and  Isabella,  are  further  itistances 
of  Shakspeare's  power  of  exhibiting  the  loftier  and  stronger 
traits  of  the  female  character.       His  picture  of  the  fasci- 
nating Egyptian  queen  is,  indeed,  a  master-piece.     In 
perusing  it,  we  feel  no  longer  astonished  that  crowns  and 
empires  were  sacrificed  for  her.     "  The  soft  Triumvir's 
fault"  is  easily  "  forgiven."     We  no  longer  wonder  at, 
we  scarcely  pity  him,  so  splendid  is  the  prize  for  which  he 
is  content  to — 


ENGLI5K    POETRY.  69 

•  "  Let  Rome  in  Tiber  melt,  and  the  wide  arch  '     . 

■    Of  the  ranged  empire  fall !" 

The  reader — for  this  is  not  on  the  list  of  acting-plays, — 
is  himself  caught  in  the  golden  snare.  The  plaj*  is  occu- 
pied with  battles  and  treaties,  with  wars  and  commotions, 
Vi'ith  the  quarrels  of  monarchs,  and  the  destinies  of  the 
v.-orld,  yet  all  are  forgotten  when  Cleopatra  is  on  the 
scene.  We  have  many  and  splendid  descriptions  oi  her 
personal  charms,  but  it  is  her  mind,  the  strength  of  her 
passion,  the  fervour  and  fury  of  her  love,  the  bitterness  of 
her  hatred,  and  the  desperation  of  her  death,  which  take 
so  strong  a  hold  upon  the  imagination.  We  follow  her, 
admire  her,  sympathize  with  her,  through  all,  and  when 
the  asp  has  done  its  fatal  work,  who  does  not  exclaim 
^vith  Charmion  ? — 

"  Now  boast  thee,  Death  !  in  thy  possession  lies 
A  lass  unparailel'd !" 

How  different  a  being  from  this,  is  the  ill-fated  fair  who 
slumbers  in  "  the  tomb  of  the  Capulets."  She  is  all  gen- 
tleness and  mildness,  all  hidden  passion,  and  silent  suffer- 
ing ;  but  her  love  is  as  ardent,  her  sorrows  are  as  over- 
nvhelming,  and  her  death  as  melancholy.  "  The  gentle 
lady  wedded  to  the  Moor"  is  another  sweet,  still  picture, 
which  we  contemplate  with  admiration,  until  death  drops 
his  curtain  over  it.  Imogen  and  Miranda^  Perdila  and 
Ophelia,  Cordelia,  Helen,  and  Viola,  need  only  be  men- 
tioned to  recall  to  the  mind  the  most  fascinating  pictures  of 
female  character  which  have  ever  been  delineated.  The 
last  is  a  mere  sketch,  but  it  is  a  most  chyiming  one  ;  and 
its  best  description  is  that  exquisite  paraphrase,  in  which 
the  character  is  so  beautifully  summed  up: — 

"  She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek.     She  pined  m  thought, 
And  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat,  like  Patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  Grief." 

Of  .Shaks})eare's  comic  female  characters,  it  will  be 
sufficient  to  adduce  two,  fiosalind  and  Beatrice.  What  a 
fascinnting  creature  is  the  first  !  what  an  admirable  com- 


70  LECTURES    ON 

pound  of  wit,  pf.iyety,  and  good  humour  !  blended,  at  the 
same  time,  with  deep  and  strong  passion,  with  courage 
and  resolution  ;  with  unshaken  art'ection  to  hei-  father, 
and  constant  and  fervent  love  for  Orlando.  How  extra- 
ordinary and  romantic  is  this  character,  if  we  contemplate 
it  in  the  abstract,  yet  how  beautiful  and  true  to  nature,  if 
we  examine  it  in  all  its  details.  Beatrice  is  a  character  of 
a  very  different  stamp  from  Rosalind,  although  resembling 
her  in  some  particulars.  She  has  all  her  wit ;  but,  it  nmst 
be  confessed,  without  her  good  humour.  Her  arrows  are 
not  merely  piercing,  but  poisoned.  Rosalindas  is  cheerful 
raillery,  Beatrice's,  satirical  bitterness ;  Rosalind  is  not 
only  afraid  to  strike,  but  unwilling  to  wound  :  Beatrice  is, 
at  least,  careless  of  the  effect  of  her  wit,  if  she  can  but 
find  an  opportunity  to  utter  it.  But  Shakspeare  has  no 
heartless  characters  in  his  dramas,  he  has  no  mere  "  intel- 
lectual gladiators,''  as  Dr.  Johnson  lias  well  styled  the 
actors  in  the  witty  scenes  of  Congreve.  Beatrice  ha;? 
strong  and  easily  excited  feelings.  Love  is  called  into 
action  by  the  stratagem  of  the  garden  scene  ;  and  rage, 
indignation,  and  revenge,  by  the  slanders  cast  upon  her 
cousin.  We  have  heard  the  character  called  inconsistent, 
but  what  is  human  nature  but  a  tissue  of  inconsistencies  ? 
or  rather,  are  not  our  hopes,  fears,  affections,  and  pas- 
sions, linked  together  by  a  thread  so  fine,  that  only  the 
gifted  eye  of  such  a  poet  as  Shakspeare  can  discover  it  ? 
The  changes  of  purpose  and  passion,  as  developed  by  him 
in  the  mind  of  Beatrice  are  any  thing  but  inconsistencies; 
abrupt  and  surprising  they  certainly  are,  but  they  arc 
accounted  for  by  motives  of  extraordinary  weight,  and 
feelings  of  singular  susceptibility. 

Before  I  close  this  subject,  however,  1  would  say  a  few 
words  upon  the  neglected  play  of  ^'  Pericles  ;"  first,  because 
it  contains  a  very  sweet  and  interesting  female  character, 
— that  of  Marina,  the  heroine, — and,  secondly,  because 
.its  authen.ticity  has  been  questioned  by  the  commentators. 
This  dran)a  has  always  clearly  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  pro- 
duction of  Shakspeare,  although  certainly  a  production  of 
his  earlier  years.  The  inconsistency  and  confusion  of  the 
plot,  and  the  inartificial  manner  in  which  many  of  the 
events  are  brought  about,  prove  it  to  be  the  work  of  a 
povice  in  the  art ;  but  the  delicate  touches  of  nature,  the 


KNUUSH    POKfRif.  71   ". 

Ibeautiful  delineations  of  character,  the  sweet  flow  of  its 
verse,  and  the  rich  vein  of  poetry  and  imagination,  which 
pervade  the  whole,  betray  the  master's  hand,  and  entitle  it, 
hi  my  opinion,  to  a  high  rank  among  the  works  ol  Shaks- 
peare.  How  tine,  for  instance,  is  the  following  soliloquy 
of  Pericles,  on  a  ship  at  sea  : — ■ 

''  Thou  God  of  the  great  vast !  rebuke  these  surges 

Which  wash  both  h;aveu  aiui  hell;   airJ  Thou,  that  hast 

Upon  the  winds  command,  bind  them  in  brass, 

Having  call'd  them  from  the  deep  !  Oh  !  still  thy  deafning, 

Thy  dreadful  thunders !  gently  quench  thy  nimble, 

Sulphureous  flashes  !  Thou  storm  !  thou,  venomously, 

Wilt  thou  spit  all  thyself?     The  seaman's  whistle 

Is  as  a  whisper  in  the  ears  of  death, 

Unheard." 

The  description  of  the  recovery  of  Thaisa  from  a  state  of 
suspended  animation,  is  also  most  powerfully  eloquent :— - 

"  Nature  awakes  ;   a  warmth 
Breathes  out  of  her  ;  she  hath  not  been  entranced 
Above  five  hours.     See  how  she  'gins  to  blow 
Into  life's  flower  again  ! — She  is  alive  ;  behold, 
Her  eyelids,  cases  to  those  heavenly  jewels 
Which  Pericles  hath  lost, 

Begin  to  part  their  fringes  of  bright  gold,  ,  ,, 

The  diamonds  of  a  most  praised  water 
Appear  to  make  the  world  twice  rich." 

Marina,  the  daughter  of  Pericles,  is  born  at  sea,  during 
a  storm ;  and  our  author  in  this  drama,  as  in  the  "  JVinier's 
Tale,''''  leaps  over  the  intervening  years,  and  shows  her,  in 
the  fourth  act,  "on  the  eve  of  womardiood  ;"  wheie  her 
first  speech,  on  the  death  of  her  nurse,  is  sweetly  plaintive 
and  poetical : — 

''  No,  no  ;  1  will  rob  Tellus  of  hor  weed 
To  strew  thy  grave  with  flowers  !  the  yellows,  blues, 
The  purple  violets,  and  marygolds, 
Shall  as  a  chaplet  hang  upon  thy  grave. 
While  Summer-days  do  last.     Ahmc!  poor  maid. 
Born  in  a  tempest,  when  my  mother  died, 
1'his  world  to  me  is  like  a  lasting  storm. 
Whirring  me  from  my  friends." 


'3 


72  vLKCTURES    0^ 

In  the  course  ol'  the  play,  Marina  unueigoes  a  van- 
ety  of  adventures,  in  all  of  which  the  mingled  gentle- 
ness and  dignity  of  her  character  is  most  admirably  deve- 
loped. The  interview  with  her  father,  in  the  lifth  act,  is, 
indeed,  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  atiiecting  passages 
in  the  whole  range  of  the  British  drama ;  and  I  earnestly 
recommend  all  who  are  unacquainted  with  this  play  to 
peruse  it  immediately,  and  judge  for  themselves,  whether 
the  mighty  hand  of  Shakspeare  be  not  visible  throughout. 

The  preceding  observations  have,  I  hope,  sutliciently 
shown,  not  only  the  great  power  and  skill  of  Shakspeare 
in  his  delineation  of  females,  but  also  that  he  exhibits  as 
great  resources,  and  as  much  fertility  of  genius  in  them,  as 
in  any  of  the  other  characters  of  his  dramas.  The  cham- 
pions who  have  hitherto  broken  a  lance  in  favour  of  this 
cause,  have  usually  confined  their  observations  to  the 
gracefulness  and  gentleness  of  Juliet,  and  Imogen^  and 
Desdemona,  but  when  we  remember  that  the  same  pencil 
has  painted  so  many,  and  such  diametrically  opposite 
characters,  then  I  say,  that  if  Shakspeare  had  never  given 
us  a  single  masculine  portrait,  still  he  would  have  shown  a 
powerful  and  original  genius,  which,  in  fecundity  and  ver- 
satility, as  well  as  in  elegance  and  gracefulness,  has  never 
yet  been  equalled,  and  will  certainly  never  be  surpassed. 

In  addition  to  the  neglect  of  his  female  characters, 
another  vulgar  estimate  of  the  powers  of  Shakspeare  was 
founded  upon  the  idea,  that  he  was  a  great,  but  irregular 
genius,  flourishing  in  a  barbarous  age,  which  was  unen- 
lightened, excepting  by  the  splendour  which  he  himself 
threw  around  it ;  and  which  even  over  his  own  ♦«  mounting 
spirit"  has  cast  its  gothic  chains,  and  prevented  it  from 
reaching  its  natural  elevation.  We  now  feel  and  know, 
that  his'^judgment  was  as  profound,  as  his  genius  was  mag-- 
nilicent;  that  his  skill  in  constructing  his  plots,  and 
developing  his  characters,  was  not  surpassed  even  by  the 
splendour  of  his  imagination,  and  the  richness  of  his  dic- 
tion ;  and  that,  so  far  from  shining  a  solitary  star  in  the 
midst  of  Cimmerian  blackness,  he  was  surrounded  by  infe- 
rior, but  still  resplendent  orbs,  each  of  which  only  waited 
the  setting  of  his  surpassing  brightness,  to  shine  itself  the 
lord  of  the  ascendant. 

The  fame  which  this  extraordinary  man  has  acquired. 


ENLGISH    POETRr.  7S 

and  which  seems,  to  use  a  simile  of  Schlegel's,  "  to  gather 
strength,  hke  an  Alpine  avalanche,  at  every  period  of  its 
descent,"  is  not  the  least  remarkable  circumstance  con- 
nected with  our  subject.  It  is  not  simply  from  the 
approving  judgments,  or  the  delighted  fancies,  of  his  par- 
tial readers,  that  Shakspeare  derives  his  reputation  and  his 
power.  His  writings  "  come  home,"  as  Lord  Bacon  has 
expressed  it,  ""'  to  men's  business  and  bosoms."  They 
teach  us  something  of  ourselves,  and  "  of  the^stuff  we  're 
made  of."     Like  his  own  Hamlet,— 

"  They  set  us  up  a  glass, 
Where  we  may  see  the  inmost  parts  of  us." 

Hence,  it  is  not  merely  approval,  or  even  delight,  which 
is  excited  by  his  powers  ;  it  is  "  an  appetite,  a  feeling,  and 
a  love."  No  poet  was  ever  so  passionately  admired  ;  be- 
cause none  ever  so  completely  developed  the  springs  of 
human  nature,  and  thus  rendered  himself  intelligible,  and 
interesting  to  all.  Hence  too,  the  universality,  and  the 
perpetuity  of  his  fame.  He  has  painted  all  the  modes  and 
qualities  of  human  conditions  ;  all  the  shades  and  pecu- 
liarities of  human  character.  Wherever,  therefore,  those 
characters,  and  those  conditions  exist,  the  works  of  Shaks- 
peare can  never  become  foreign,  or  obsolete.  "  The 
stream  of  time,  which  is  continually  washing  the  disso- 
luble fabrics  of  other  poets,  passes  without  injury  by  the 
adamant  of  Shakspeare." 

"  Age  cannot  wither  him,  nor  custom  stale 
His  infinite  variety." 

The  surface  of  life  may  be  altered,  but  the  tide  of  human 
feelings  and  passions  will  continue  its  unalterable  course 
beneath  it.  Reputation  built  upon  the  ephemeral  taste 
and  fancies  of  a  day,  will  vanish  with  the  causes  which 
produced  it ;  but  Shakspeare's,  with  its  altar  in  the  heart 
of  man,  is  extensive  as  the  world,  and  imperishable  as 
humanity.  The  fame  of  Shakspeare  has  naturally  sug- 
gested an  inquiry  as  to  the  peculiar  powers  of  that  mind, 
■which  could  acquire  such  an  influence  over  the  minds  of 
others.     What  was  the  talisman  that  worked  these  won- 

K 


74  LECTURES    ON 

ders  ]  \V  herein  did  he  surpass  that  world  which  has  paid 
him  such  extraordinary  honours  ?  The  answers  to  these 
inquiries  have  been  as  various  as  the  tastes  and  opinions  of 
readers.  His  wit,  his  imagination,  his  subhmity,  have  all 
been  suggested  as  the  distinguished  characteristics  of  his 
mind;  but  the  arguments  which  have  been  advanced  in 
support  of  these  positions  have  proved  only,  that  in  these 
particulars  he  excelled  the  rest  of  the  world.  In  order  to 
answer  this  inquiry  satisfactorily,  we  must  also  show 
wherein  he  excelled  himself.  The  most  extraordinary 
supposition,  however,  that  we  have  heard  started  on  this 
point  is,  that  he  painted  with  truth  and  fidelity,  because  he 
divested  himself  of  the  common  passions  and  feelings  of 
human  nature ;  and  stood  aloof  from  the  ordinary  con- 
cerns of  mankind,  in  order  to  describe  with  greater  cor- 
rectness and  impartiality. 

"■  Cold  lookers-on,  they  say, 
Can  better  judge  than  those  who  play  ;" 

and  the  remark  would  apply  to  Shakspeare,  if,  indeed,  he 
merely  described ;  if  the  warm  and  glowing  pictures  which 
he  exhibits  could  have  been  the  effects  of  cold  calculation, 
and  unimpassioned  observations.  If  I  miglit  hazard  an 
opinion,  I  should  say  that  the  master-feeling  in  the  mind 
of  Shakspeare,  and  that  which  has  enabled  him  to  subju- 
gate the  hearts  of  all  mankind,  was  sympathy  :  for  it  has 
been  well  said,  that  "  when  words  come  from  one  heart, 
they  cannot  fail  to  reach  another."  Shakspeare's  feel- 
ings, there  can  be  no  doubt,  were  of  the  finest  and  acutest 
order.  He  is  styled  by  his  contemporaries  "  sweet 
Shakspeare,"  and  "  gentle  Shakspeare,"  as  if  to  denote 
the  susceptibiUty  of  his  disposition,  and  his  amiable  man- 
ners. He  painted  correctly,  because  he  felt  strongly : 
and  it  seems  to  me  impossible  to  account,  in  any  other 
way,  for  his  excellence  in  both  provinces  of  the  dramatic 
art.  It  is  well  known  that  spirits  remarkable  for  their  mirth 
and  hilarity,  are  most  susceptible  of  tender  and  mournful 
passions  ;  and  it  has  been  observed  that  the  English,  as  a 
nation,  are  equally  famous  for  wit,  and  for  melancholy. 
U  is  a  common  observation,  that  mirth  begets  mirth  ;  and 


'^f-. 


ENGLISH    POETRr.  70 

on  the  other  hand,  an  old  Enghsh  poet,  Drayton,  has 
beautifally  said,  that, — 

*'  Tears, 
Elixir-like,  turn  all  to  tears  they  touch." 

The  feelings  of  Shakspeare's  mind  produced  correspond- 
ent feelings  in  the  minds  of  others  ;  like  a  precious 
stone,  which  casts  its  brilliant  hues  over  every  object  that 
it  approaches. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  strongest  marked 
feature  in  the  mind  of  our  author,  we  are  convinced  that 
the  theory  which  refers  his  astonishing  fame  to  the  posses- 
sion of  any  one  peculiar  quality,  is  erroneous.  His  dis- 
tinguishing characteristic  is  the  union  of  many  excellen- 
cies :  each  of  which  he  possessed  in  a  degree  unequalled 
by  any  other  poet.  Shakspeare  will  be  found  pre-eminent, 
if  we  consider  his  sublimity,  his  pathos,  his  imagination, 
his  wit,  or  his  humour ;  his  union  in  his  own  person  of 
the  highest  tragic  and  comic  excellence,  and  his  know- 
ledge of  nature,  animate,  inanimate,  and  human.  To  excel 
in  any  one  of  these  particulars  would  form  a  great  poet ; 
to  unite  two,  or  three  of  them,  is  a  lot  too  lofty,  even  for 
Ihe  ambition  of  highly  favoured  mortals;  but  to  combine 
all,  as  Shakspeare  has  done,  in  one  tremendous  intellect, 
is,  indeed, — 

"  To  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 
And  bear  the  palm  alone  !" 

The  genius  of  Shakspeare  cannot  be  illustrated  by  a  refe- 
rence to  that  of  any  other  poet ;  for,  with  whom  is  he  to 
be  compared  ?     Like  his  own  liichard, — 

"  He  has  no  brother,  is  like  no  brother, 
He  is  himself  alone  !" 

Geniuses  of  the  most  colossal  dimensions  become  dwarfed 
by  his  side.  Like  Titan,  he  is  a  giant  among  giants. 
Like  him  too,  he  piles  up  his  magnificent  thoughts, 
Olympus  high  ;  he  grasps  the  lightnings  of  creative  Jove  ; 
and  speaks  the  words  that  call  spirits,  and  mortals,  and 


70  LECTURES    OX 

•worlds,  into  existence.  He  has  faults,  douhtless  ;  faults 
which  it  is  not  my  purpose  either  to  extenuate,  or  to  deny, 
but  the  critic  who  thinks  that  such  faults  are  of  much 
weight,  when  o])posed  to  his  genius,  would  be  likely  to 
condemn  the  Apollo  Bclvidere,  for  a  stain  upo«  the  pe- 
destal. The  very  brightness  of  transcendent  excellence 
renders  its  faults  and  imperfections  but  the  more  visible  ; 
nothing  appears  faultless  but  mediocrity.  The  moon  and 
the  stars  shine  with  unsullied  brightness  ;  the  sun  alone 
exhibits  spots  upon  his  disk  I 

It  is,  however,  truly  difficult  to  say  anything  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Shakspeare,  which  has  not  been  said  before.  So 
numerous,  so  ardent,  and  so  discriminative,  have  been  his 
admirers,  that  almost  every  latent  beaaty  seems  to  have 
been  brought  to  light,  and  every  once-obscure  passage 
surrounded  by  a  blaze  of  illustration.  There  is,  indeed, 
hut  one  class  of  characters  which  he  has  delineated  with 
consummate  power  and  excellence,  which  has  not,  I  think, 
yet  attracted  that  critical  notice  which  it  merits  ;  I  mean 
the  party-coloured  fool,  or  Jester,  whose  gibes  and  jeers 
were  wont  to  set  the  tables  of  our  ancestors  in  a  roar. 
This  character  is  now  no  longer  to  be  met  with  in  the 
halls  of  the  great  and  opulent.  The  glories  of  the  motley 
coat  have  passed  away.  A  few  faint  vestiges  of  it  arc  pre- 
served at  wakes  and  village  festivals,  in  the  remote  pro- 
vinces of  the  island  ;  and  some  of  its  honours  are  yet  di- 
vided between  the  Clown  and  Harlequin  of  our  modern 
pantomime;  but,  alas!  "how  changed!  how  fallen!" 
S?pirits  of  Touchstone,  Gobbo,  and  Pompey  Bum  !  do  ye 
not  sometimes  wander  from  your  Elysium,  to  mourn  over 
the  imbecile  efforts  of  these  degenerate  times  ? 

The  sketches  which  Shakspeare  has  given  us  of  this 
character,  will  sufficiently  excuse  our  ancestors  for  the  at- 
tachment which  they  evinced  for  it ;  for,  if  his  portraits  at 
all  resemble  the  originals,  they  must  have  been  very  de- 
lightful personages  indeed.  As  delineated  by  our  author, 
the  character  is  a  compound  of  infinite  wit,  with  match- 
less effrontery  ;  affecting  folly,  making  itself  the  butt  of 
its  companions  for  their  amusement,  yet  frequently  turning 
the  laugh  upon  themselves ;  generally  escaping  from  the 
consequences  of  great  impudence,  and  not  a  little  knavery, 
by  the  exercise  of  its  humorous  talents;  yet  liable  to  be 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  77 

kicked  and  cudgelled,  whensoever,  and  wheresoever,  it 
was  deemed  expedient.  These  are  the  general  outlines  ; 
but  these,  Shakspeare  has  diversified  with  such  varied  and 
admirable  power,  that,  many  as  are  the  clowns  introduced 
in  his  plays,  he  has  never  repeated  the  same  individual. 
Like  nature  herself,  who  does  not  produce  two  blades  of 
grass  exactly  similar,  so  Shaksjieare  makes  the  nicest  dis- 
crimination between  personages  which  appro  d.-nate,  and 
almost  blend  with  each  oiher.  Even  thie  RuJJinns,  who 
are  hired  to  murder  the  Infant  Princes  in  ^'Richard  the 
Third,^^  and  the  Servants  who  are  sjueading  the  table  for 
the  banquet  of  the  Yolscian  lords  in  "  Coriolanus,^^  are  all 
distinguished  from  each  other,  by  the  most  minute,  and 
delicate  traits  of  character. 

In  Shakspeare's  clowns  there  is  every  variety  which 
diversity  of  humour,  talents,  station,  and  disposition,  can 
give  to  them.  From  the  witless  blundering  Costard, — 
perhaps  the  lowest  in  the  scale, — we  ascend  by  regular 
gradations  through  the  half-starved,  conscientious  Laun- 
celot  Gohho, — "  young  master  Launcelot," — the  merry 
chirping  clown  in  "  Twelfth  Night,'''^  and  the  bitter  sar- 
castic Fool  in  "  King  Lear,^'  up  to  that  very  prince  of 
fools, — the  courtier,  lover,  philosopher,  scholar,  poet, 
duellist, — the  "unimitated,  inimitable"  Touchstone.  The 
clowns  of  Shakspeare,  also,  are  not  extraneous  chaiacters, 
introduced,  like  those  in  the  plays  of  Marston,  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  and  some  others,  merely  for  the  purpose  of 
showing  off  their  own  humour.  They  are  active  person- 
ages of  the  drama,  and  often  contribute  materially  to  the 
business  of  the  scene.  On  the  mistakes  of  Costard,  hinges 
the  whole  plot  of  "  Love's  Labour  Lost,"  and  Launcelot 
Gobbo  is  a  principal  agent  in  the  escape  of  Jessica,  in  the 
«'  JMerchant  of  Venice."  The  dialogues  between  Launce 
and  Speed,  in  the  "  Tico  Gentlemen  of  Verona,"  and  be- 
tween the  Dromios  in  the  "  Comedy  of  Erro'^s,"  are,  on 
this  very  account  alone,  sufficient  to  prove  that  those  plays 
are  not  icholly  Shakspeare's.  That  tlie  marks  of  his  pow- 
erful pencil  may  be  sometimes  recognised,  cannot  be 
denied  ;  but,  that  the  composition  of  the  entire  jjicture  is 
his,  is  an  opinion  which  not  all  the  authorities  in  the  world 
shall  persuade  me  to  adopt:  this  feeling  "fire  cannot  burn 
out  of  me ;  I  will  die  with  it  at  the  stake !"     The  charac- 


?S  LECTURES    ON 

ter  of  the  Fool  in  "  Lear,'^  is  one  of  the  most  effective 
even  in  that  wonderful  drama,  by  the  way  in  which  it  sets 
off,  and  relieves  that  of  the  King ;  and  there  cannot  be  a 
more  striking  proof  of  the  incapacity  of  managers,  and  of 
the  menders  of  Shakspeare,  than  its  omission  in  the  acted 
play. 

I  have  already  expressed  my  attachment  to  Touchstone ; 
and  I  hope  that  general  opinion  will  coincide  with  me.  I 
would  say,  as  Jacques  said  to  the  Duke^ — -"  I  pray  you,  like 
this  Fool !"  He  is  indeed  the  very  paragon  of  his  tribe  : 
*'  One  that  hath  been  a  courtier;  and  says,  if  ladies  be 
but  young  and  fair,  they  have  the  gift  to  know  it ;  and  in 
his  brain,  which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit,  after  a 
voyage,  he  hath  strange  places  crammed  with  observation, 
the  which  he  vents  in  mangled  forms." 

Was  there  ever  such  matter  in  folly  ?  was  there  ever,  as 
Jacques  calls  him,  such  "  a  material  fool  ?"  Are  all  the 
wise  treatises  which  were  ever  written  on  the  laws  of 
honour,  comparable  to  his  dissertation  on  the  seven  causes  1 
Or,  is  there  any  one  who  will  dispute  his  claim  to  a  cour- 
tier's rank,  after  having  heard  him  plead  his  own  cause  ? 
*'  I  have  trod  a  measure  ;  I  have  flattered  a  lady  ;  I  have 
been  politic  with  my  friend  ;  smooth  with  mine  enemy  ;  I 
have  undone  three  tailors  !  I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and 
like  to  have  fought  one  !''  Then,  how  richly  is  his  mind 
furnished  !  Launcelol  Gobho  is  an  erudite  man  in  his  way, 
but  he  is  nothing  to  Touchstone.  The  former,  it  is  true, 
talks  of  "  the  Fates  and  Destinies,  and  such  odd  sayings  ; 
the  Sisters  three,  and  such  branches  of  learning :"  but 
Touchstone,  moralizing  on  the  time,  and  playing  the  logician 
with  the  Shepherd,  till  he  proves  to  his  hearer's  own  satis- 
faction, that  he  is  incontestably  damned  ;  and  reading  his 
lectures  on  poetry  to  Jludrey ;  and  recounting  his  amours 
with  Jane  Smile ;  is  entirely  matchless  and  irresistible ; 
and  compels  us  to  reiterate  the  exclamation  of  Jacques^ — ^ 

"  Oh  noble  fool ! 
A  worthy  fool !  Motley's  tlie  only  wear  !" 

Shakspeare  in  this  play  has  very  artfully  and  beautifully 
shown,  how  two  characters,  which  to  the  casual  observer 
appear  diametrically   opposed,  may  have  latent  resem- 


EWiiLiSH    POETRY.  <y 

biances ;  and  may  feel  themselves  irresistibly  drawn  to- 
gether, by  some  inexpHcable  link,  so  fine  as  to  be  invisible, 
and  yet  so  strong  as  to  lorui  an  instant  bond  of  union. 
Of  all  the  characters  in  this  drama,  those  ot  Jacques  and 
the  Clown  would  seem  to  stand  at  the  farthest  distance 
from  each  other  ;  but  on  their  first  interview,  the  former 
becomes  attached  to  Touchstone ;  is  ambitious  of  a  motley 
coat,  and  is  wrapt  in  admiration,  that  "  Fools  should  be 
so  deep  contemplative."  Yet  Jacques  is  a  gentleman  of 
polished  mind  and  manners  ;  and  Touchstone  is  a  low  do- 
mestic. One  is  shy  and  reserved  ;  the  other  loquacious 
and  fond  of  society.  One  is  of  a  mind  sensitive  and  irri- 
table, even  to  disease  ;  the  other,  the  common  butt  at 
which  it  is  the  chartered  privilege  ot  all  to  level  their 
malice,  or  their  wit.  IJ,  however,  we  examine  these  cha- 
racters more  closely,  we  shall  find  amidst  all  their  contra- 
rieties, many  traits  of  resemblance.  Both  are  nien  of 
strong  sense  and  extensive  observation  ;  both  have  a  quick 
talent  for  detecting  the  ridiculous ;  but  in  the  nervous 
temperament  of  Jacques,  this  has  produced  misanthropy, 
and  a  sullen  abjuration  of  the  world  ;  while  in  the  heartier 
humour  of  Touchstone,  it  has  only  added  to  his  sources  of 
enjoyment,  by  enabling  him  to  laugh  more  frequently  at 
the  follies  of  mankind.  Both  have  been  used  to  the 
court ;  and,  although  in  very  different  stations,  have  en- 
joyed equal  opportunities  of  observing  the  world,  and  it  is 
clear  that  the  good-humoured  fool  has  arrived  at  much 
the  same  conclusion  in  his  estimate  of  mankind,  as  the 
splenetic  recluse.  They  have  the  same  disposition  to 
depreciate  whatever  is  the  admiration,  or  the  occupation  of 
others.  Jacques  adds  a  burlesque  stanza  to  the  song  of 
Amiens,  and  Touchstone  produces  a  ludicrous  parody  on 
Odando^s  verses  :  Jacques  swears  that  the  Duke,  because 
he  kills  venison,  is  a  greater  usurper  than  his  brother  ; 
and  Touchstone,  because  the  Shepherd  gets  his  living  by 
the  increase  of  his  flock,  tells  him  that  he  lives  by  the  in- 
trigues of  cattle,  and  the  wickedness  of  bell-wethers. 

I  find  that  by  beginning  with  Touchstone,  I  have  been 
guilty  of  a  sad  anti-climax.  To  descend  v^ith  Shakspeare 
is,  however,  a  loftier  occupation  than  to  rise  with  other 
writers.  Indeed,  I  am  not  sure,  when  I  reconsider  the 
matter,  that  I  have  not  committed  an  injustice  in  giving 


so  LECTURES   ON 

any  of  the  motley  tribe  precedence  of  the  Fool  in  "  LearJ^ 
This  is  a  tragic  character  ;  not  in  itself,  but  in  the  way  in 
which  it  sets  oil',  and  heightens  the  picture  which  is  pre- 
sented of  the  misery  of  the  king.  It  is  like  the  dark  lights 
of  Rembrandt ;  a  gleam,  a  ray,  showing,  but  not  dispelling, 
the  blackness  which  surrounds  it.  The  following  scene 
is  an  example  : — 

'•  Fool.  Can'st  tell  how  an  oyster  makes  his  shell  ? 

Leai'.   No. 

Fool.  Nor  I  neither  ;  but  I  can  tell  why  a  snail  lias  a  house. 

Lear.   Why  ? 

Fool.  Why,  to  put  his  head  in  ;  not  to  give  it  away  to  his 
daughters,  and  leave  his  horns  without  a  case. 

Lear.  I  will  forget  my  nature. — So  kind  a  father !  Be  my 
horses  ready  ? 

Fool.  Thy  asses  are  gone  about 'em.  The  reason  why  the 
seven  stars  are  seven,  is  a  pretty  reason. 

Lear.  Because  they  are  not  eight  ? 

FooL  Yes,  indeed.     Thou  would'st  make  a  good  fool. 

Lear.  To  take  it  again  perforce  !     Monster  ingratitude  ! 

Fool.  If  thou  wert  my  fool,  nuncle,  I  'd  have  thee  beaten  for 
being  old  before  thy  time. 

Lear.  How  's  that  ? 

Fool.  Thou  should'st  not  have  been  old  before  thou  had'sl 
been  wise. 

Lear.  Oh !  let  me  not  be  mad !  not  mad,  sweet  heaven  ! 
Keep  me  in  temper,  I  would  not  be  mad." 

How  subtle  and  fine  was  Shakspeare's  knowledge  of 
the  human  mind  !  How  beautifully  has  he,  in  the  three 
characters  of  Lear,  Edgar,  and  the  Fool,  discriminated 
between  the  re-al  insanity  of  the  first,  the  assumed  mad- 
ness of  the  second,  and  the  official  buffoonery  of  the  third- 
Lear^s  thoughts  are  ever  dwelling  on  his  daughters  ;  his 
mind  is  a  desert,  and  that  one  idea,  like  the  Banana-tree, 
fixes  in  it  its  thousand  roots,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others. 
How  different  is  this  from  the  wild  farrago  of  Mad  Tom, 
who  is  obliged  to  talk  an  unintelligible  gibberish,  for  the 
purpose  of  supporting  his  assumed  part;  through  which 
his  real  character  is  every  now  and  then  seen,  and  dis- 
covers itself  in  a  sympathy  for  the  unhappy  king.  The 
conversatiou  of  the  Fool,  on  the  contrary,  is  composed  of 


ENGLISH   POETRY.  SI 

* 

rscraps  of  old  songs  and  sayings,  which  he  applies  with 
bitter  mirthfulness  to  the  situation  of  his  master.  It  is 
also  worthy  of  notice,  among  those  minute  beauties  which 
are  so  often  passed  over  without  couiment,  that,  as  Learns 
misery  deepens  and  increases,  the  witticisms  of  the  Fool 
become  less  frequent ;  and,  unable  any  longer  to  indulge 
in  his  jests,  he  shows  his  sympathy  by  his  silence.  This 
is  finely  imagined,  and  worth  all  the  eloquent  sorrow  that 
an  ordinary  play-wright  would  have  indited.  In  the  early 
part  of  the  tragedy,  the  Fool  is  as  frequent  an  interlocu- 
tor as  Lear  himself;  but  in  that  powerfully  pathetic  scene, 
in  which  the  distracted  king  imagines,  that  his  daughters 
are  being  arraigned  before  him  for  their  crimes,  he  in- 
dulges in  only  one  sorry  jest,  at  the  beginning,  and  is  after- 
ward mute  ;  while,  Edgar  also,  unable  any  longer  to  play 
the  maniac,  exclaims  : — • 

' '  My  tears  begin  to  take  his  part  so  much, 
Thev  '11  mar  mv  counterleitinw." 


o 


it  is  thus  that  genius  effects  its  noblest  triumphs,  by  iden- 
tifying its  actors  with  its  auditors. 

I  have  left  myself  very  little  space  for  discussing  the 
merits  of  the  remaining  worthies  of  this  class.  The 
Clown  In  "  Twelfth  JVY^/ii"  should  occupy  a  very  consi- 
derable place  in  our  esteem.  He  has  less  poetry  about  his 
character  than  either  of  those  of  whom  we  have  been 
speaking,  but  he  is  more  of  a  bon  vivant,  and  a  man 
among  men.  Both  Touchstone,  and  the  Fool  in  "  Lear" 
seem  in  some  measure  to  stand  aloof  from  the  other  per- 
sonages, and  to  have  but  few  feelings  and  objects  in  com- 
mon with  them.  They  are  "among  them,  but  not  of 
them."  But  the  Cloion  in  the  play  before  us,  can  sing  a 
good  song,  can  take  his  share  of  a  stoop  of  wine  ;  can 
join  in  the  laugh  whicii  he  has  not  raised,  and  assist  in  the 
plot  which  others  have  projected.  There  is  "  a  laughing 
devil  in  the  sneer"  of  Lear''s  Fool,  and  even  Touchstone 
"smiles  in  bitterness,"  hut  this  jovial  Clown  has  much 
more  of  mere  flesh  and  blood  in  him  :  he  aj)i)roximates 
nearer  to  Falstaff  than  his  brethren  do.  There  seems  to 
be  nothing  of  pure  malevolence  in  his  wit.  Even  his 
share  in  the  conspiracy  against  MalvoUo,  is  undertaken 


82  LEGTURES    ON 

simply  for  the  love  oi  laughter,  and  without  any  desire  io 
give  real  j)ain  to  the  fantastical  steward.  Nay,  he  at  length 
entertains  sympathy  for  his  persecutions,  and  endeavours 
to  use  his  good  oftices  in  his  favour.  His  joining  in  the 
bitter  laugh,  and  ironical  compliments  of  his  companions, 
when  impelled  to  it  by  the  absurdities  of  .Malvolio,  is  the 
effect  of  long  habit,  and  a  naturally  quick  discernment  of 
the  ridiculous  ;  and  he  no  more  evinces  thereby  a  want  of 
sympathy  and  good  nature,  than  did  Hogarth  when  he 
used  his  pencil  to  depict  the  ludicrous  expression  of  the 
boy's  countenance  whose  head  was  broken  at  the  tavern. 
He  is  a  more  inveterate  punster  than  any  of  his  tribe. 
"Words  with  him  are  the  most  ductile  and  pliable  of  all 
things  ;  he  can  twist  them  into  any  shape,  and  extort  from 
them  almost  any  meaning  ;  he  is  a  very  despot  over  the 
English  language  ;  he  pursues  with  unconquerable  perti- 
nacity the  most  innocent  word  in  the  vocabulary,  and 
never  parts  with  it  till  he  has  triumphed  over  its  simplicity: 
he  is,  indeed,  as  he  describes  himself,  "  not  his  mistress's 
fool,  but  her  corrupter  of  words." 

These  are  the  flower  of  the  clownish  army ;  but  there 
are  numerous,  although  inferior,  worthies,  behind.  There 
is  Pompey  the  Greats  in  "  Measure  for  Measure ;"  and 
Costard,  who  finds  out,  that  remuneration  is  the  Latin  word 
for  three  farthings ;  and  Launcelot  Gohbo  who  was  the 
subject  of  that  memorable  warfare  between  the  fiend  and 
his  conscience  ;  and  the  SliephercPs  Son,  in  the  *'  Winter^s 
Tale,''''  the  new  made  gentleman,  or  rather,  "  the  gentle- 
man born  before  his  father."  On  the  merits  of  these  I 
have  not  time  to  descant:  if  not  worthy  to  be  compared 
with  their  brethren,  whom  I  have  noticed  more  at  length, 
they  are,  nevertheless,  fine  creations  in  their  way.  They 
are  imbued  with  the  genius  of  Shakspeare  :  his  "  image 
and  superscription"  is  on  them.  There  is,  however,  this 
distinction  between  them  and  the  others,  that  they  seem 
rather  to  be  qualified  for  the  motley-coated  office,  than 
to  have  ever  filled  that  station ;  and  Costard,  and  the 
Shepherd''s  Son,  are  not  gratuitous,  but  involuntary  blun- 
derers. Pornpey  Bum,  however,  is  really  a  great  man. 
His  narration  of  the  amours  o(  Master  Froth  and  Mistress 
Elbow,  is  irresistibly  comic  ;  and  the  arguments  by  which 
he  endeavours  to  convince  Burnardine  of  the  benefits  of 
being  hanged,  are  almost  worthy  of  Touchstone,  himsflf. 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  83 

Such  was  England's,  Nature's  Shakspeare  ; — 

"  Each  change  of  many-colour'd  life  he  drew, 
Exhausted  worlds,  and  then  iinagined  new  : 
Existence  saw  him  spurn  her  bounded  reign, 
And  panting  Time  toil'd  after  him  in  vain  !" 

Shakspeare's  contemporaries  have,  since  the  publica- 
tion of  Mr,  Lambe's  specimens,  and  the  critical  labours  of 
Seward,  "Whalley,  Colman,  Weber,  and  Gifford,  begun  to 
attract  that  portion  of  public  attention  to  which  they  arc 
entitled.  Jonson's  character  has  also  been  successfully 
vindicated,  by  the  last  named  gentleman,  against  the  charge 
of  malignity  and  envy  of  Shakspeare  ;  but  1  do  not  think 
that  his  poetical  merits  are  yet  properly  appreciated.  I 
cannot  consent  that  the  palm  of  humour  alone  shall  be 
given  to  him  ;  while,  in  wit,  feeling,  pathos,  and  poetical 
diction,  he  is  to  be  sunk  fathoms  below  Fletcher  and  Mas- 
singer.  In  the  last  particular,  1  think  that  he  excels  them 
both,  and,  indeed,  ail  his  contemporaries,  excepting  Shaks>- 
peare. 

The  strength  of  Jonson's  style  is  undoubted,  and  there- 
fore, his  critics  have  chosen  to  deny  him  the  merits  of 
elegance  and  gracefulness.  The  fact  is,  that  in  his  trage- 
dies, and  the  njetrical  parts  of  his  comedies,  his  versifica- 
tion is  peculiarly  smooth  and  flowing ;  and  the  songs,  and 
other  lyrical  pieces,  which  he  has  sprinkled  over  his 
dramas,  are  exquisitely  elegant,  and  elaborated  to  the 
highest  degree  of  polish.  The  celebrated  poems  of 
"  Diink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes,"  and  "  Still  to  be 
neat,  still  to  be  drest,"  sufficiently  prove  this  assertion. 
I  have  already,  in  a  former  lecture,  given  one  of  Jonson's 
canzonets,  but  I  cannot  refrain  from  also  quoting  the 
following  beautiful  madrigal. 

"  Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 
All  that  love's  world  compriseth  ; 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  love's  star  when  it  riyeth  ! 
Do  but  mark  her  forehead,  smoother 
Than  words  that  scjothe  her ! 
And  from  Iier  arch'd  brow  such  a  grace 
Sheds  it?elf  through  the  face, 


^4  LECTURES    ON 

As  alone  thorc  triumphs  to  the  life, 

All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements'  strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 

Before  ru<le  Ijands  have  toucli'd  it  ? 
Have  you  ii'iark'd  but  the  fall  of  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  stnutch'd  it  ? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver  ? 
Or  the  swan's  down,  ever  ? 
Or  have  sineit  o'  the  bud  o'  the  briar  ? 
Or  the  nard  i'  the  fire  ? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  o'  the  bee. 
Oh  !  so  white  !  Oh  !  so  soft  I  Oh  !  so  sweet  is  she  !" 

"  Catiline^  his  Conspiracy,''^  is  a  fine  tragedy,  full  of 
passionate  and  animated  action  ;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
displaying  eloquent  dialogue,  powerful  description,  and  a 
sweet,  yet  vigorous  versification  ;  while  the  characters 
are  drawn,  that  of  Catiline  especially,  with  Shakspeareari 
force  and  truth.  The  piece  opens  with  the  denunciation 
of  Syllah  Ghost ;  after  which  Catiline  enters,  brooding 
over  his  intemltd  treason.  The  succeeding  scene  is  very 
artfully  contrived  to  let  us  into  the  characters  of  the  lead- 
ing conspirators,  by  the  account  which  Catiline  gives  of 
them  to  Aurelia ;  and  these  characters  are  preserved,  and 
acted  up  to,  with  uncommon  skill  throughout  the  whole 
drama.  The  imprecation  pronounced  by  Catiline  is 
fme,  and  contains  a  brief  summary  of  his  purpose  and 
character  : — 

"  ft  is  decreed  !     Nor  shall  thy  fate,  Oh  Rome  ! 
Resist  my  vow.     Though  hills  were  set  on  hills, 
And  seas  met  seas,  to  guard  thee,  I  would  through  : 
I  'd  plough  up  rocks,  sleep  as  the  Alps,  in  dust  ; 
And  lave  the  Tyrrhene  waters  into  clouds. 
But  I  would  reach  thy  head,  thy  head,  proud  city!" 

The  description  of  the  morning  on  which  the  chief 
conspirators  meet  together,  in  the  following  scene,  is 
highly  poetical ;  and  as  it  is  remarked  by  Whalley,  in 
strict  accordance  with  the  character  of  the  speaker,  Len- 
iulus,  who  has  been  before  described  as  addicted  to 
superstition,  and  a  belief  in  omens,     Jonson,  like  Shaks- 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  85 

peare,  does  not  indulge  in  extraneous  description  ;  every- 
thing in  both  these  great  authors  is  characteristic  and 
dramatic  ;  and,  in  the  present  instance,  the  mind  is  finely 
prepared  for  the  fearfully  interesting  subject  on  which 
the  characters  are  about  to  debate,  by  this  powerlul 
description  : — 

"  It  is,  methinks,  a  morninor  full  of  fate ! 
She  riseth  slowly,  as  her  sullen  car 
Had  all  the  weights  of  sleep  and  death  hung  at  it. 
She  is  not  rosy-finger'd,  but  swoll'n  black  ! 
Her  face  is  like  a  water  turn'd  to  blood, 
And  her  sick  head  is  bound  about  with  clouds, 
As  if  she  threaten'd  night  ere  noon  of  day  ! 
It  does  not  look,  as  it  would  have  a  hail, 
Or  health  wish'd  in  it,  as  on  other  morns." 

This,  besides  being  short,  and  highly  characteristic  of 
the  speaker,  is  connected  with  the  business  of  the  play 
by  the  answer  of  Cethrgus  : — 

'*  Why,  all  the  fitter,  Lentulus  ;  our  coming 
Is  not  for  salutation,  wc  have  business." 

The  art  and  subtlety  of  Catiline's  character  is  also 
finely  developed  in  this  scene  ;  for  though  ambition  is  his 
ruling  passion,  the  gratitication  of  that  passion  depends 
upon  his  assuming  the  appearance  of  subserviency  to  his 
coadjutors  ;  and  he  tells  them, — 

"  I  am  shadow 
To  honour'd  Lentulus  and  Cethegus  here, 
Who  are  the  heirs  of  Mars." 

And  he  is  diligent  in  applauding,  and  coinciding  with,  all 
their  suggestions.  Afterwards,  however,  when  his  power 
is  consummated,  in  his  address  to  his  soldiers,  and  in  his 
conduct  during  the  battle,  he  takes  a  loftier  tone,  and  acts 
"  as  one  having  authority."  This  is  human  nature,  and 
is  beautifully  and  truly  illustrated  by  the  poet.  My  limits 
%vill,  of  course,  not  allow  me  to  adduce  many  specimens 
of  the  dramatic  skill  of  Jonson,  which  cannot  be  siiown 
by  passages,  or  even  by  whole  scenes.     For  this,  I  must 


86  LECTURES    ON 

refer  to  the  plays  themselves  :  the  present  object  being 
merely  to  prove  that  Jonson  excelled  in  the  lighter  graces 
and  elegancies  ol"  poetry  ;  that  he  could  describe  power- 
fully ;  and  that  his  vtrsification,  instead  of  being  rugged 
and  lame,  is  constructed  upon  the  truest  principles  of 
harmony.     The  following  is  animated  and  striking  : — 

"  Slaughter  bestrid  the  streets,  and  stretch'd  himself 
To  seem  more  huge  ;  whilst  to  his  stained  thiglis, 
The  gore  he  drew,  flow'd  up,  and  carried  down 
Whole  heaps  of  lisnbs  and  bodies  through  his  arch ,; 
No  age  was  spared,  no  sex,  nay,  no  degree  ; 
Not  infants  in  the  porch  of  life  were  free. 
The  sick,  the  old,  that  could  not  hope  a  day 
Longer  by  nature's  bounty,  not  let  stay  : 
Virgins  and  widows,  matrons,  pregnant  wives , 
All  died  :— 

The  rugged  Charon  fainted,  « 

And  ask'd  a  navy,  rather  than  a  boat, 
To  ferry  over  the  sad  world  that  came. 
The  maws  and  dens  of  beasts  could  not  receive 
The  bodies  that  those  souls  were  frighted  from  ; 
And  e'en  the  graves  were  till'd  with  men  yet  living, 
Whose  flight  and  fear  had  mix'd  them  with  the  dead." 

The  speech  of  Petteius,  in  the  closing  scene  of  this  fine 
tragedy,  is,  perhaps,  somewhat  too  long  for  our  purpose  ; 
but  it  is  so  full  of  noble  and  sublime  images,  gives  so 
striking  a  picture  of  the  chief  personage  of  the  drama, 
and  is  so  characteristic  of  the  strength  and  beauty  of  the 
authors  style,  that  I  cannot  persuade  myself  to  txiwtx- 
jate  it : — 

"  The  straits  and  needs  of  Catiline  beins  such, 


That  he  must  fight  with  one  of  the  two  armies 


't! 


That  then  had  near  enclosed  him,  it  pleased  Fate 
To  make  us  th'  object  of  his  desperate  choice, 
Wherein  the  danger  almost  poised  the  honour  : 
And  as  he  rose,  the  day  grew  black  with  him, 
And  Fate  descended  nearer  to  the  earth, 
As  if  she  meant  to  hide  the  name  of  things 
Under  her  wings,  and  make  the  world  her  quarry. 
At  this  we  roused,  lest  one  small  minute's  stay 
J^acl  left  it  to  be  inquired,  what  Rome  was  : 


ENGLISH    FOETKS'. 


87 


And,  as  weought,  arm'd  in  the  confidence 

Of  our  great  cause,  in  form  of  battle  stood  : 

Whilst  Catiline  came  on,  not  with  the  face 

Of  any  man,  but  of  a  public  ruin  : 

His  countenance  v/as  a  civil  war  itself; 

And  all  his  host  had  standing  in  their  looks 

The  paleness  of  the  death  that  was  to  come. 

Yet  cried  they  out  like  vultures,  and  urged  on, 

As  though  they  would  precipitate  our  fates  : 

Nor  stay'd  we  longer  for  them  ;  but  himself 

Struck  the  first  stroke,  and  with  it  fled  a  fife  ; 

Which  cut,  it  secm'd  a  narrow  neck  of  land 

Had  broke  between  two  mighty  seas,  and  either 

Flow'd  into  other  ;  tor  so  did  the  slaughter  ; 

And  whirl'd  about,  as  when  two  violent  tides 

Meet,  and  not  yield.     Tiie  Furies  stood  on  hills, 

Circling  the  place,  and  trembling  to  see  men 

Do  more  than  they  ;   whilst  Piety  lelt  the  field, 

Grieved  for  that  side,  that  in  so  bad  a  cause 

They  knew  not  what  a  crime  their  valour  was. 

The  Sun  stood  still,  and  was  behind  a  cloud 

The  battle  made,  seen  sweating  to  drive  i*p 

His  frighted  horse,  whom  still  the  noise  drove  backward  :" 

And  now  had  fierce  Enyo,  like  a  flame, 

Consumed  all  it  could  reach,  and  then  itself; 

Had  not  the  fortune  of  the  Commonwealth 

Come,  Pallas-like,  to  every  Koman  thought, 

Which  Catiline  seeing,  and  that  now  his  troops 

Cover'd  that  earth  they  'd  fought  on  with  their  trunks, 

Ambitious  of  gieat  fame  to  crown  iiis  ill, 

Collected  all  his  fury,  and  ran  in,  .        . 

Arm'd  with  a  glory  high  as  his  despair, 

Into  our  battle,  like  a  Lybian  lion, 

Upon  his  hunters  :  scornful  of  our  weapons. 

Careless  of  wounds,  plucking  down  lives  about  him, 

Till  he  had  circled  in  himself  with  death  ; 

Then  he  fell  too,  t'  embrace  ii  where  it  lay. 

Minerva  holding  forth  Medusa's  head, 

One  of  the  giant  brethren  felt  himself 

Grow  marble  at  the  killing  sight,  and  now, 

Almost  made  stone,  began  t'  iiujuiro  what  flint, 

What  rock,  it  was  that  crept  through  all  his  limbs, 

And  ere  he  could  think  more,  was  that  he  fear'd  ; 

So  Catiline,  at  the  sight  of  Rome,  in  us 

Became  the  tomb  :  yet  did  his  look  retain 


88  LECTURES    ON 

Some  of  liis  fierceness,  and  his  hands  still  moved, 
As  if  he  laboiir'd  yet  to  grasp  the  state 
With  those  rebellious  parts." 

It  would  be  difilcultto  find,  in  the  whole  range  of  Eng- 
lish poetry,  a  more  magnificent  description  than  this. 
The  images  are  of  a  grandeur  and  sublimity  correspond- 
ent with  the  subject,  yet  do  they  not,  excepting  perhaps 
that  of  the  horses  of  the  sun  being  frightened  at  the  noise 
of  the  battle,  which  is  certairdy  somewhat  too  violent, 
degenerate  into  turgidity  and  bombast.  It  is,  however, 
more  epic  than  dramatic  ;  and  if  the  action  had  been  rep- 
resented, instead  of  being  described,  it  would  certainly 
have  a  more  powerful  effect  upon  the  audience.  For 
the  honour  of  the  poet,  we  should  add,  that,  much  as  he 
borrowed  from  the  classics,  this  speech  is  oriu;inal. 

I  have  quoted  so  largely  from  "  Catiliney"  that  I  have 
not  any  space  for  extracts  from  the  rest  of  our  author's 
dramas.  The  most  poetical  among  them  are  *'  Sejanus" 
"  Cynlhia/s  Revels,'"'  the  "  Poetaster,''^  and  the  fine  frag- 
ments of  the  ^' Sad  Shepherd,'''' m\(\  ^^  Morlimer'' s  FalV 
But  Jonson's  fame  rests  principally  upon  his  comic 
powers.  The  great  characteristic  feature  of  his  comic 
genius  is  humour;  an  ingredient  which  seems  to  be  entirely 
lost  sight  of  in  the  compositions  of  modern  comedies ;  the 
best,  and  most  successful  of  which  are  remarkable  only 
for  wit.  Brilliancy  of  dialogue,  and  smartness  of  repartee, 
excellent  things  as  they  are,  are  but  poor  substitutes  for 
character,  action,  and  human  nature.  In  the  composition 
of  a  perfect  comedy  must  be  united  wit  and  humour. 
Jonson  had  infinite  humour,  without  much  wit.  Congreve, 
on  the  contrary,  had  wit  in  abundance,  with  very  little,  it' 
any,  humour.  Sir  Joseph  Wittol  and  Captain  Bluff  may 
seem  exceptions  to  this  remark ;  but  the  former  appears 
to  me  to  be  not  humorous,  but  fantastic  and  unnatural ; 
and  the  latter  is  a  compound  plagiarism  from  Bessus  and 
the  two  Swordsmen  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Con- 
greve's  most  humorous  play  is  "  Love  for  Love  ;"  the  most 
witty  of  Jonson's  is,  perhaps,  "  Volpone,  or,  the  Fox ;" 
which  is  the  most  perfect  of  all  his  works.  The  next  in 
merit  are  ''Epicene,  or,  the  Silent  Woman,'''  the  ''Mche- 
?'?isJ!,"  and  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour." 


ENGLISH    POETRY. 

Jonson's  style  had  few  imitators,  while  that  of  his  illus- 
trious rival  Shakspeare,  formed  the  taste,  and  fixed  the 
literary  character,  of  his  country.  The  best  pupil  of  the 
Jonsonian  School  was  Cartwriglit,  o(  whom  Jonson  was 
very  proud,  and  used  to  call  him  his  son ;  and  I  give  an 
extract  from  the  "  Royal  iS/are,"  to  prove  the  truth  of  the 
old  bard's  assertion,  "  My  son  Cartwright  writes  like  a 
man :" — 

*'  If  they  are  Gods,  Pity  's  a  ban(iuet  to  them. 
Whene'er  the  innocent  and  virtuoua 
l)o  escape  death,  then  is  their  festival : 
Nectar  ne'er  flows  more  largely  than  when  blood  's 
Not  spilt  that  should  be  saved.     D'ye  think  the  smoke 
Of  human  entrails  is  a  steam  that  can 
Delight  the  Deities  ?     Whoe'er  did  burn 
The  temple  to  the  honour  of  the  architect  ? 
Or  break  the  tablet  in  the  painter's  praise  ? 
'Tis  Mercy  is  the  sacrifice  they  like." 

1  have  entered  thus  largely  upon  the  merits  of  Jonsdhj, 
because  I  know,  that,  although  much  talked  of,  he  is  little 
read.  He  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  humorous,  but 
rough  and  unpolished  writer ;  exhibiting  a  rude  strength 
in  his  comic  scenes,  but  without  the  feeling,  elegance,  or 
power,  necessary  for  a  tragic,  or  poetical  author.  How 
true  such  opinions  are,  my  quotations  have  sufficiently 
shown  ;  and  for  the  number  and  length  of  those  quotations^ 
i  need  make  no  apology ;  for  they  are,  indeed, 

"  No  weak  efforts  of  a  modern  pen, 
But  the  stroncT  touches  of  immortal  Ben." 


M 


90  LECTURES    01? 


LECTURE  THE  FOURTH. 


DRAMATIC    POETRY    CONTINUED. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  : — Massinger  : — Ford  : — Webster ;— * 
Eftectsof  the  Civil  War  upon  Dramatic  Literature  : — Milton, 
Dryden,  Otvvay,  Lee,  Rowe,  and  Young  : — Brilliancy  and 
Licentiousness  of  the  new  School  of  Comedy: — Congreve, 
Farquhar,  and  Vanbrugh  : — Jeremy  Collier  : — Sentimental 
Comedy  : — Sir  Richard  Steele  : — Goldsmith  : — Cumber- 
land:— The  German  School : — Sheridan  : — Present  state  oi" 
the  Drama. 

My  last  lecture  attempted  a  critical  review  of  the 
splendid  dramatic  talents  of  Shakspeare,  and  Jonson ;  I 
now  proceed  to  notice  some  of  their  gifted  contempora- 
ries. Beaumont  and  Fletcher  have  given  birth  to  many 
admirable  scenes  of  wit  and  humour ;  and  much  lofty, 
eloquent,  and  affecting  poetry.  Their  powers, — I  speak 
of  them  Jo Jn^Zi/,  for  all  the  attempts  to  distinguish  their  pro- 
ductions have  ended  in  nothing  but  vain  conjecture, — - 
their  powers  were  of  a  very  high  order  ;  not,  however,  as 
some  of  their  hdmirers  assert,  approachable  to  that  of' 
Shakspeare.  They  skimmed  the  surface  of  life,  and 
painted  some  of  the  lighter  feelings  and  passions,  with 
much  ability :  but  they  could  not  sound  the  depths  of 
human  nature  like  Shakspeare.  When  they  venture  into 
the  higher  regions  of  passion,  they  show  great  fancy  and 
elegance,  but  nothing  more.  The  madness  of  the  Jailer's 
daughter,  in  that  part  of  the  "  Two  JSCoble  Kinsmen,''- 
which  is  ascribed  to  Fletcher,  is  prettily  managed  ;  but 
compare  it  for  a  moment  with  Ophelia,  or  Lear, — the 
comparison  with  the  latter  has  been  challenged, — and 
how  infinite  is  the  disproportion  :  the  first  is  not  without 
the  graces  of  poetry,  but  tlie  latter  are  compounded  of  the 


ENGLISH    POETRY. 


fl 


elements  of  human  nature.  There  is,  however,  great 
beauty  in  the  following  passage  from  the  "  Queen  of 
Corinth :" — 

"  Wherefore  sits 
My  Phoebe  shadow'd  in  a  sable  cloud  ? 
Those  pearly  drops  which  thou  lett'st  fall  hke  beads, 
Numbering  on  them  thy  vestal  orisons, 
Alas  !  are  spent  in  vain  ;   I  love  thee  still. 
In  midst  of  all  these  showers  thou  sweetlier  scent'st 
Like  a  green  meadow  on  an  April  day, 
In  which  the  sun  and  west  wind  play  together, 
StriTing  to  catch  and  drink  the  pearly  drops." 

Their  use  of  imagery  drawn  from  external  nature,  is  in 
general  peculiarly  happy  :  the  passage  which  I  have  just 
quoted  is  an  instance  of  this,  and  that  which  follows  is  still 
more  striking : — 

''  1 .  Of  all  the  flowers,  methinks  the  rose  is  best. 

2.  Why,  gentle  Madam  ? 

1.  It  is  the  very  emblem  of  a  maid  ; 

For  when  the  west  wind  courts  her  gently, 

IIow  modestly  she  blows,  and  paints  the  sun 

With  her  chaste  blushes !     When  the  north  wind  comes 

near  her. 
Rude  and  impatient,  then,  like  Chastity, 
She  locks  her  beauties  in  her  bud  again, 
And  leaves  him  to  base  briers." 

Shakspeare  is  reported  to  have  joined  in  the  composi- 
tion of  the  "  Two  J^oble  Kinsmen,^''  from  which  this  pas- 
sage is  taken  ;  and  from  the  extreme  beauty  and  delicacy 
of  the  simile,  I  am  half  inclined  to  ascribe  it  to  him. 
Again,  how  exquisitely  simple  and  natural  is  the  following 
image : — 

"  Though  I  have  lost  my  fortune,  and  lost  you, 
For  a  worthy  father,  yet  I  will  not  lose 
My  former  virtue  :  my  integrity 
Shall  not  forsake  me  :   But,  as  the  wild  ivy 
Spreads  and  thrives  better  in  some  piteous  ruin, 


93  LECTURES    ON 

Of  tower,  or  defaced  temple,  than  it  docs 
I'Manted  by  a  new  building  ;  so  shall  I, 
Make  rny  adversity  niy  instrument 
To  wind  me  up  into  a  full  content." 

The  public  are  much  better  acquainted  with  the  writirig^ 
of  Massinger  than  with  those  of  most  of  his  contempora- 
ries :  for  which  distinction  he  is  mainly  indebted  to  the 
admirable  manner  in  which  he  has  been  edited  by  Mr. 
Gidbrd,  and  to  the  circumstance  of  some  of  his  plays 
having  been  illustrated  on  the  stage  by  the  talents  of  a 
popular  actor.  I  cannot,  however,  quite  agree  with  Mr, 
Gifibrd,  when  he  ranks  this  author  immediately  after 
Shakspeare.  He  certainly  yields  in  versatility  of  talent  to 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  whose  comic  genius  was  very- 
great  ;  and  in  feeling  and  nature,  I  by  no  means  think  his 
tragedies  equal  to  theirs,  or  to  Ford's,  or  Wehster's. 
Massinger  excelled  in  working  up  a  single  scene  forcibly 
and  effectively,  rather  than  in  managing  his  plots  skilfully, 
or  in  delineating  characters  faithfully,  and  naturally.  His 
catastrophes  are  sometimes  brought  about  in  a  very  impro- 
bable and  unnatural  manner ;  as  in  the  "  Bondman,'''' 
where  the  insurrection  of  the  slaves  is  quelled  by  their 
masters  merely  shaking  their  whips  at  them ;  and  in 
«'  Jl  neiv  Way  to  Pay  old  Debts,"  where  Overreach,  about 
to  murder  'his  daughter,  suddenly  drops  his  weapon,  and 
says,  "  Some  undone  widow  sits  upon  my  arm,  and  takes 
away  the  use  of 't."  I  am  aware  that  the  first  incident  is 
said  to  be  an  historical  fact ;  but  even  if  it  be  so,  it  is  not 
a  probable  and  effective  incident  in  a  drama.  "  Le  vrai 
n'est  pas  toujours  le  vraisemblable."  His  characters  are 
certainly  drawn  with  amazing  power,  especially  those 
in  which  the  blacker  passions  are  depicted  ;  but  they  are 
generally  out  of  nature.  At  least  he  wanted  the  art  of 
shading  his  pictures :  he  gives  us  nothing  but  the  bold, 
prominent  features  ;  we  miss  all  the  delicate  tints  of  the 
back  ground. 

With  all  these  drawbacks,  the  genius  of  Massinger  is 
unquestionably  great.  The  sweetness  and  purity  of  his 
style,  was  not  surpassed  even  in  his  own  days.  His  choice 
and  management  of  imagery  is  generally  very  happy  i 
excepting  that  he  is  apt  to  pursue  a  favourite  idea  too  long, 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  93 

His  descriptive  powers  were  also  very  considerable,  the 
clearness  and  distinctness  with  which  he  places  objects 
before  our  eyes,  might  furnish  models  for  a  painter.  In 
single  scenes  too,  as  I  before  observed,  his  giniius  is  great 
and  original.  The  battle  between  the  father  ami  son  in 
the  "  Unnatural  Combat,'^  and  the  dreadful  parley  which 
precedes  it,  are  as  powerfully  expressed,  as  they  are 
imagined.  Indeed,  the  genius  of  Massinger  is,  perhaps, 
more  conspicuous  in  this  play,  with  all  its  fatdts,  than  in 
any  other.  The  character  of  Old  J\falefort,  although  pos- 
sessing all  the  defects  which  I  have  pointed  out,  is  a  mas- 
terly delineation,  and  ably  sustained.  Like  Ford's  Gio- 
vanni, he  is  the  victim  of  a  guilty  passion  ;  but  instead  of 
an  enthusiastic,  romantic,  and  accomplished  scholar,  we 
have  here  a  veteran  warrior,  and  the  perpetrator  of  many 
crimes.  The  flash  of  lightning  by  which  he  is  destroyed 
is  another  of  Massinger's  violent  catastrophes;  but  such  a 
catastrophe  is  finer  and  more  eftective  in  this  play  than  in 
some  others,  as  it  seems  to  harmonize  with  the  tremendous 
tone  of  the  whole  picture. 

I  have  not  space  to  enter  into  a  detailed  review  of  the 
merits  of  the  rest  of  Shakspeare's  contemporaries.  Jon- 
son,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Massinger,  have,  per- 
haps, fewer  faults  than  most  of  them  ;  but  there  are  others 
by  whose  excellencies  they  are  rivalled,  and  evtn  sur- 
passed. Ford  is  the  poet  of  domestic  life  ;  the  lord  and 
ruler  of  our  sighs  and  tears.  Nowhere,  not  even  in  the 
pages  of  Shakspeare  himself,  is  there  to  be  found  any  thing 
more  deeply  pathetic,  or  more  intensely  affecting,  than 
some  scenes  in  the  "  Broken  Heart,^^  and  the  "  Brother 
and  »S'is/er."  But  his  "web  is  of  a  mingled  yarn."  He 
delighted  too  much  in  violent  situations,  and  shocking 
catastrophes  ;  and  his  style  is  too  bald  and  unornamented. 
He  cannot  shower  the  sweet  flowers  of  fancy  over  the 
grave,  and  hide  the  horrors  of  his  scenes  of  blood  under 
the  bewitching  mantle  of  poetry.  This  is  the  grand 
secret  with  which  Shakspeare  was  so  well  acquainted. 
We  weep  and  tremble  over  the  scenes  of  Ford  ;  hut  we 
feel  a  disinclination  to  take  up  the  volume  again,  and 
undergo  the  same  harrowing  and  unmitigated  sensations. 
}n  Shakspeare,  though  we  tremble  as  we  reaid,  we  still 


i)4  LECTURES    ON 

clin^  to  his  pages  with  thrilling  interest  and  unabated 
delight,  and  recur  to  them  with  feelings  of  increased  admi- 
ration. 

The  same  objections  will  apply  to  the  dramas  of  Web- 
ster; but  his  fancy  had  a  far  bolder  wing  than  that  of 
Ford,  and  he,  therefore,  in  that  particular,  approaches 
near  to  the  standard  of  Shakspeare.  This  author,  with 
whose  name  few  persons  are  probably  very  familiar, 
enjoyed  a  great  and  deserved  reputation  among  his  con- 
temporaries, and  will,  doubtless,  yet  emerge  from  the  tem- 
porary oblivion  in  which  the  forgetful  generations  who 
succeeded  him  have  allowed  him  to  sink.  Ford,  of  whom 
I  have  just  been  speaking,  says, — 

"  Crown  liim  a  poet,  whom  nor  Greece  nor  Rome 
Transcend  ;" 

and  Middleton,  another  distinguished  dramatic  contem- 
porary, speaking  of  his  tragedy  the  "  Dutchess  of  J)ia//j/," 
says — 

"  Thy  monument  is  raised  in  thy  hfetime, 
Each  man  is  his  own  marble. 
Thy  epitaph  only  the  title  be, 
Write  Dutchess!  that  will  fetch  a  tear  for  thee." 

The  tragedy  here  mentioned  is  certainly  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  compositions  inour  language.  With  many 
faults,  and  many  extravagancies,  it  yet  evinces  so  much 
sterling  merit,  such  a  vivid  poetic  fancy,  and  such  power 
in  moving  terror  and  pity,  that  I  know  very  few  dramatic 
pieces  which  are  entitled  to  rank  above  it.  Two  similes 
will  sufficiently  show  the  originality  and  beauty  of  Web- 
ster's imagery.  The  first  illustrates  the  ingratitude  dis- 
played to  a  faithful  servant,  who  continued  attached  to  his 
master  during  his  fallen  fortunes : — 

"  Oh !  th'  inconstant, 
And  rotten  ground  of  service  !     You  may  see 
'Tis  e'en  like  one,  that  on  a  winter's  night 
Takes  a  long  slumber  o'er  a  dying  fire, 
As  loath  to  part  from  't ;  yet  parts  thence  more  co]<I, 
Than  when  he  first  sat  down." 


ENGLISH   POETRY.  95 

The  second  is  contained  in  the  following  lines  : — 

'•'  An  honest  statesman  to  a  prince 
Is  hke  a  cedar  planted  by  a  spring  : 
The  spring  bathes  the  tree's  roots,  the  grateful  tree 
Rewards  it  with  the  shadow." 

Chapman,  Middleton,  Heywood,  Dekker,  and  Tour- 
neur,  occupy  honourable  stations  in  what  may  be  called 
the  school  of  Shakspeare  ;  and  Shirley  gracefully  closes 
the  list,  not  as  one  of  the  greatest,  but  as  the  last,  of  an 
illustrious  phalanx,  who  disappeared,  and  left  their  ranks 
to  be  occupied  by  a  body,  to  whom  they  bore  no  more 
resemblance,  than  did  the  Titans  who  assaulted  Olym- 
pus, to 

"  That  small  infantry 
Warr'd  on  by  cranes." 

We  liave  now  traced  the  history,  and  entered  into  a 
brief  review,  of  the  merits  of  dramatic  literature  in  Eng- 
land, previous  to  the  restoration ;  we  have  seen  its  faint 
and  imperfect  dawn  in  the  authors  of  "  Gorbodiic,''  and 
Gammer  Gurtori's  Js'^eedle ;""  its  morning  light  of  rich  pro- 
mise in  Peele,  Lily,  and  Marlowe  ;  and  its  full  meridian  of 
power  and  splendour,  in  Shakspeare  and  his  contempora- 
ries. We  have  now  the  less  gratifying,  but  not  less  impe- 
rative duty,  of  the  historian  and  critic,  to  perform,  to  nar- 
rate its  degradation  and  debasement ;  its  decline  and 
lall :  to  watch  its  downward  course  from  the  proud  pin- 
nacle on  which  we  have  recently  contemplated  it,  until 
we  find  it  in  the  present  day,  in  a  state  where  the  oidy 
consolation  left  us,  is  the  conviction  that  it  cannot  possibly 
sink  any  lower  :  when  we  find  the  national  theatres,  where 
delighted  and  applauding  audiences  listened  to  the  music 
of  Shakspeare,  Fletcher,  and  Jonson,  converted  into 
booths  for  cattle,  and  puppet-boxes  for  Punch  ;  when  the 
boards  where  Garrick  trod  are  disgraced  by  hoofs ;  and 
when  the  natural  emotions  of  "  Lear^'  and  "  Hamlet''^  are 
no  longer  attractive,  unless  aided  by  the  contortions  of 
apes,  and  the  mummeries  of  pantomime. 

The  deposition  and  death  of  Charles  the  First,  as  we 


OG  LECTURES    OX 

have  already  had  occasion  to  remark,  were  events,  whlcri;i 
however  advantageous  they  may  have  proved  to  the  hber- 
tiesofthe  nation,  were  deatli-blows  to  poetry,  and  the  arts. 
When  Charles  ascended  the  throne,  above  a  century  had 
elapsed  since  the  civil  commotions  of  the  nation  had  been 
quieted  by  the  accession  of  the  house  of  Tudor  ;  and -the 
ecclesiastical  persecutions  of  Henry,  Mary,  and  Elizabeth, 
had  subsided  into  something  like  religious  toleration,  if  not 
religious  liberty.     Charles  the  First,  if  the  incidents  of  his 
reign  had  not  turned  out  so  disastrous,  bid  fair  to  have 
proved  to  England,  what  Francis  the  First  had  been  to 
France,  the  encourager  of  the  arts  ;  the  munificent  patron 
of  their  professors  ;  and  an  example  in  the  highest  station 
in  the  realm,  of  good  taste  and  mental  acquirement,  which 
would  have  been  very  generally  imitated  by  all  who  looked 
up  to  the  throne  as  the  fountain  of  emolument  and  honour. 
The  triumph  of  the  puritans  effected  a  sad  revolution  in 
these  matters.     The  davs  of  Jack  Cade  seemed  to  have 
returned,  when  a  man  was  hanged  for  being  able  to  write 
his  own  name,  histead  of  having  a  mark  to  himself  like  an 
honest,  plain-dealing  citizen  ;  and  when  the  nobility  were 
proscribed  as  national  enemies,  because,  as  it  was  said, 
they  thought  it  scorn  to  go  in  leathern  aprons.     Painting, 
sculpture,   music,   and   poetry,   but   above   all   dramatic 
poetry,  were  anathematised  as  infamous,  and  abominable  ; 
and  even  Milton  considered  it  necessary  to  excuse  himself 
to  his  sect,  for  writing  the  fine  tragedy  of  "  Sa'tnpson  Jlgo- 
nistesy^  by  citing  the  authority  of  St.  Paul,  who  thought  it 
not  unworthy  of  him  to   insert  a  verse  of  Euripides,  the 
great  tragic  writer  of  Greece,  into  the  Holy  Scriptures  : — 
1  Corinthians,  1 5th  chapter,  33d  verse,  "  Be  not  deceived, 
evil  communications  corru})t  good  manners." 

Milton,  as  a  dramatist,  is  the  connecting  fink  between 
the  writers  who  flourished  previous,  and  subsequent,  to  the 
restoration :  not  that  he  has  much  in  common  with  either, 
but  of  his  two  dramas,  the  first,  "  Comus,''^  was  written 
before,  and  the  other,  "  Sampson  Jlgonistes,''^  after,  that 
period  ;  and  they  are  each  characteristic  of  the  writer  at 
the  different  periods  in  which  they  were  written.  The 
first  has  all  the  buoyancy  and  vivacity  of  youth;  is  full  of 
high  aspirings ;  of  splendid  imaginings  ;  the  outpourings 
of  a  poetical  spirit,  before  it  was  soured  by  disappoint- 


ENtJ^LlSU  I'OEIKV..  »f 

^<int,  or  levered  by  criticism,  or  embittered  by  political, 
or  polemical  controversy.  The  second  is  as  strongly 
characteristic  of  its  author  when  '•  fallen  on  evil  days,  and 
evil  tongues  ;  with  darkness  anvi  with  dangers  compassed 
round."  The  utmost  severity  of  thought  and  diction  is 
observable  in  this  drama.  There  are  no  vagaries  of  fancy ; 
no  symptoms  of  an  unbridled  imagination.  In  thought, 
expression,  sentiment,  it  is  Greek,  Attic  Greek  ;  tinged, 
however,  with  that  solemn  and  unearth))  character,  which 
it  derived  from  the  sacred  nature  of  its  subject.  Both 
dramas  are  worthy  of  the  author  of  "  Paradise  Lost.^^  It 
is  true  that  they  are  not  structures  of  the  same  vastness 
and  magnificence,  but  they  bear  evident  traces  of  the 
master-mind  of  the  same  surpassing  architect :  they  are 
designed  with  the  same  consummate  taste  and  judgment ; 
and  are  constructed  of  the  same  costly,  and  auperb,  and 
imperishable  materials. 

The  Restoration  varied  only  the  nature  of  the  poisoa 
with  which  the  public  taste  was  infected.  The  sour  man- 
ners and  fanatical  feelings  of  the  puritans,  were  exchanged 
for  the  licentiousness  and  frivohty  of  a  depraved  and  dis- 
sipated court.  The  monarch,  who  had  been  so  long  a 
dependent  on  the  bounty  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  brought 
with  him  a  taste  for  French  vices,  and  introduced  into  the 
court  of  St.  James's  all  the  profligacy,  without  the  refine- 
ment, of  the  Tuilleries.  The  English  stage,  in  like  man- 
ner, soon  became  a  bad  copy  of  the  French ;  and  Cor- 
neille,  Racine,  and  Crevillon,  are  the  literary  parents  oi 
Dryden,  Addison,  Rowe,  and  Young.  Dryden's  tragedies 
have  some  redeeming  passages,  but  as  a  whole  they  are 
essentially  and  utterly  bad.  For  character,  passion,  ac- 
tion, or  interest,  we  search  through  them  in  vain.  Their 
author  has,  indeed,  confessed  bis  own  conviction  that  his 
powers  were  not  adapted  for  dramatic  writing,  and  that 
he  had  meditated  the  jiroduction  of  an  epic  poem,  but  that 
the  taste  of  the  age  atlorded  him  no  encouragement  ib.i'i 
ytuch  a  task. 

''Dryden  in  immortal  strain, 
Had  raised  the  'ral)le  Roiiixl  airain. 
but  tl)at  a  ribald  King  and  Court, 
Hade  liim  toil  on  to  make  them  sport  -. 

N  ■         ' 


yS  LECTURES    ON 

Demanding  for  their  niggard  pay, 
Fit  for  their  souls,  a  looser  lay. 
Licentious  Satire,  Song,  and  Play." 

Otway  is  a  writer  of  a  very  different  stamp ;  and,  as  a 
dramatist,  of  a  far  higher  order;  although  the  plague-spots 
of  the  age  are  upon  him,  licentiousness  in  his  comic,  and 
bombast  and  turgidity  in  his  tragic  scenes.     But  hi  the 
latter,  where  he  does  not  attempt  to  be  sublime,  where  he 
confines  himself  to  his  own  element,  the  pathetic,  I  know 
of  no  writer  who  can  produce  effects  more  powerful  than 
his.       The   reception    of  his    "  Venice    Preserved,"   arid 
■"  Orphan,^^  on  the  stage,  when  supported  by  histrionic 
talent  at  all  commensurate  to  their  merits,  is  the  most  tri- 
umphant attestation  of  his  pathetic  powers  that  can  be 
imagined.    Mirth  may  be  forced  ;  rapture  may  be  affected ; 
but  tears  are  unequivocal  evidences  of  the  intensity  and 
genuineness  of  the  feeling  which  they  express.     Otway  is 
not  remarkable  either  for  skillfulness  in  the  construction 
of  his  plots,  or  truth  and  force  in  the  delineation  of  his 
characters.     The  plot  of  the  "  O/p/ian"  is  as  clumsy  as 
it  is  indelicate ;  and  that  of  "  Venice  Preserved'^   full  of 
glaring  improbabilities.     Of  his  characters,  Pierre  is  the 
only  one  which  shows  any  thing  like  the  finish  of  the  mas- 
ter.    The  best  of  the  others  are  but  sketches.     Jaffier  is 
intended  by  the  author  for  the  likeness  of  a  person  of 
naturally  virtuous  disposition,  driven  by  the  uncontrollable 
influence  of  oppression  and  misfortune,  to  deeds  of  despe- 
ration and  crime.     But  Jaffier,  as  delineated,  is  incapable 
of  exciting  any  feeling  but  one  of  unmixed  contempt.     His 
affection  is  puerile  and  drivelling;  his  friendship,  perfidy 
and  treachery  ;  and  what  is  meant  to  be  represented  as  his 
return  to  the  jmnciples  of  honour  and  virtue,  is  but  the 
craven  misgivings  of  pusillanimity  and  fear. 

The  beauty  and  delicacy  of  Otway's  imagery  will  be 
seen  in  the  following  example  ;  which  is,  however,  almost 
too  trite  for  quotation  : — 

"  You  took  her  up  a  little  tender  flower, 
Just  sprouted  on  a  bank,  which  the  next  frost 
Had  ni[»t,  and  with  a  careful,  loving  hand, 
Tnlnsj)lanted  her  into  your  own  fair  garden, 
Wl)ere  the  sun  always  shines.     There  long  she  flourish'd  ; 


ENGLISH  POETRr.  99 

i 

'  ■     Grew  sweet  to  sense,  and  lovely  to  the  eye  ; 
Till  at  the  last  a  cruel  spoiler  canne, 
Cropt  this  fair  rose,  and  rifled  all  its  sweetness. 
Then  threw  it  like  a  loathsome  weed  away." 

That  his  descriptive  powers  were  also  of  a  high  order,  one 
instance,  will  suffice  to  prove  : — 

'•  Through  a  close  lane  as  I  pursued  my  journey, 
And  meditated  on  my  last  night's  vision, 
1  spied  a  wither'd  hag,  with  age  grown  double, 
Picking  dry  sticks,  and  mumbling  to  herself; 
Her  eyes  with  scalding  rheum  were  gall'd  and  red. 
Cold  Palsy  shook  her  head,  her  hands  seem'd  witlier'd, 
And  on  ker  crooked  shoulders  had  she  wrapt 
The  tatter'd  remnant  of  an  old  striped  hanging. 
Which  served  to  keep  her  carcass  from  the  cold  ; 
So  there  was  nothing  of  a  piece  about  her. 
Her  lower  weeds  were  all  o'er  coarsely  patch'd 
With  different  colour'd  rags,  black,  red,  white,  yellow, 
And  seem'd  to  speak  variety  of  wretchedness." 

The  minute  and  powerful  detail  of  this  picture  would  sus- 
tain a  comparison  with  the  most  celebrated  efforts  of  the 
Dutch  and  Flemish  schools. 

Nathaniel  Lee's  Dramas  are  full  of  faults  ;  faults  of  the 
least  venial  nature  ;  but  they  are  evidently  the  productions 
of  a  man  of  genius,  and  do  not  betray  a  single  indication 
of  imbecility  or  dulness.  Their  characteristics  are  summed 
up  in  a  saying  of  his  own.  When  the  unfortunate  author 
was  conlined  in  a  strait  waistcoat  in  Bedlam,  a  scribbler 
who  went  to  visit  him,  had  the  cruelty  to  jeer  at  bis  dreadful 
malady,  by  observing  that  it  was  an  easy  thing  to  write 
like  a  madman  : — "  No,"  said  Lee,  "  it  is  not  an  easy  thing 
to  write  like  a  madman ;  but  it  is  very  easy  to  write  like  a 
fool." 

Lee's  scenes  have  nothing  of  the  fool,  but  much  of  the 
madman  in  them.  They  are  full  of  strong  and  violent 
effort ;  sometimes  well  and  powerfully  directed,  but  often 
falling  short  of  the  object  at  which  it  aims.  There  are 
passages  in  Lee's  ^^  Jihxander,''^  in  his  "  Theodosiusy 
and  in  his  portion  of  "  (Edipus,^^ — which  he  wrote  in  con- 
junction with  Dryden, — which  are  not  unworthy  of  the 


100  LECTURES    <fr? 


brightest  names  in  our  dramatic  annals.  Occasionally 
too,  he  conld  touch  a  softer  note,  and  waken  the  tender- 
est  and  most  pleasing  emotions.  The  following  lines  on 
the  JNightingale  are  lull  of  sweetness  and  pathos  : — 

"Thus  in  some  poplar  shade  the  Nightingale, 
Witti  piercing  nioaiis  does  her  lost  young  l)ewail  ; 
Which  the  rough  liind,  observing  as  tliey  lay 
Warm  in  their  riowny  nest,  had  stolen  away  : 
But  she  in  mournful  sounds  does  still  complain, 
Sings  all  the  night,  though  all  her  songs  arc  vain, 
And  still  renews  her  miserable  strain." 

John  Crowne  was  an  author  of  much  repute  at  the  pe- 
riod in  which  he  wrote,  but,  after  a  painful  examination 
of  liis  writings,  I  foimd  very  little  which  is  worth  remem- 
bering. I  have  heard  of  a  Fiench  work,  which  consisted 
of  the  witticisms  of  persons  who  never  said  more  than  one 
good  thing  in  their  lives.  I  have  not  found  many  more 
in  the  works  of  John  Crowne,  but  one  is  so  good  that  I 
cannot  resist  the  quotation  of  it : 

"  Thy  wit,  thy  valour,  and  thy  delicate  form, 
Were  mighty  faults  which  the  world  could  not  pardon. 
No  wonder  the  vile  envy  of  the  base 
Pursued  thee,  when  the  noble  could  not  bear  thee  : 
They  cursed  thee,  as  negroes  curse  the  sun, 
Because  thy  shining  glories  blacken'd  them." 

Ofthe  remaning  tragedians ofthis  school,  Rowe,  Hughes, 
Aaron  Hill,  Phillips,  and  Young;  the  first,  and  the  last 
only,  are  worthy  of  our  attention  Rowe,  though  deeply 
infected  with  the  false  French  taste  which  was  then  fash- 
ionable, was  not  unacquainted  with  the  early  English  wri- 
ters, and  some  beneficial  eilfects  from  this  acquaintance  are 
visible  in  all  his  dramas.  Perhaps  his  versification  is  the 
best  part  about  him ;  and  his  blank  verse  has  a  flow  and  an 
easy  sweetness,which  are  advantageously  contrasted  to  the 
tumidity  of  Dr}den,  and  the  feebleness  of  Otway.  His 
*'  Jane  Shore,"  in  which  he  professedly  imitated  Shak- 
speare,  and  his  "  Fan-  PenHent,"  which  is  an  audacious 
plagiarism  from  Massinger,  are  the  best  of  his  productions. 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  101 

Although  they  do  not  speak  much  for  his  origlnalit}',  they 
are  creditable  to  his  taste  ;  and  prove,  I  thinic,  that  it  was 
no  defect  in  his  own  judgmt  nt,  but  a  compliance  with  the 
popular  opinion,  that  led  him  to  French  models  for  the 
general  cast  and  character  of  his  works. 

Young's  Tragt^dies  of  the  ^'Revenge"  ^^  Busiris,^^  and 
the  *'  Brothers,''^  are  evidently  the  jiroduction-'  ol  no  ordi- 
nary miiid.  For  high  and  eloquent  declamation,  they  are 
equal  to  any  thing  which  tht-  French  School  has  produced, 
either  in  its  native  soil,  or  in  our  imitative  country. 
Though  the  first  is  the  only  one  of  these  three  tragedies 
■which  keeps  possession  of  the  stage,  )et  ^^  Busiris^^  ap- 
pears to  me  to  possess  the  most  merit.  The  principal 
character  is  drawn  with  as  much  force  and  decision  as 
Zanga,  but  has  more  of  real  human  nature  in  its  compo- 
sition. Zanga  is  a  fine  poetical  study  ;  the  grandeur  of 
the  conception,  and  the  power  of  the  execution,  are  equal; 
but  it  has  not  much  of  truth  or  nature  in  its  composition. 
Compare  it  with  the  lago  ot'  Shaks|ieare,  of  which  it  is 
evid(  ntly  a  copy,  and  it  is  like  comparing  a  la\  figuie  with 
a  statue.  One  is  a  fitting  vehicle  to  convey  to  us  the 
drapery  of  the  poet's  fancy,  and  the  folds  and  forms  in 
which  he  chooses  to  array  it ;  hut  the  other  has  the  truth 
and  power  of  nature  stamped  upon  eveiy  limb. 

But  is  not  in  the  tragedy  of  this  period  that  we  are  to 
look  for  the  dramatic  genius  of  England.  She  took  refuge 
in  the  arms  of  comedy.  A  race  of  brilliant,  but  profligate, 
wits  arose,  whose  powers  are  only  eclipsed  by  those  of 
the  worthies  of  the  Elizabethan  age  :  Wycherley,  Far- 
quhar,  Sedley,  Etherege,  Durfey,  Centlivre,  Vanbrugh, 
Ccmgreve,  Hoadley,  Cibber,  and  Gay  ;  these  are  names, 
of  which,  notwithstanding  their  blemishes,  our  nation  can- 
not, and  ought  not  to  be  otherwise  than  proud.  The 
dramas  of  the  ages  of  Elizabeth  and  Charles,  are  diame- 
trically opposite  to  each  other,  both  in  their  excellencies 
and  their  defects.  The  first  are  all  nature,  but  nature  in 
her  sweetest,  truest,  and  most  graceful  forms  :  the  second 
are  all  art,  but  art  in  her  most  polished,  pleasing,  and  ele- 
gant costumes.  The  first  painted  passions ;  the  second 
manners:  the  first  led  us  through  the  mazes  of  the  human 
heart ;  the  second  makes  us  acquainted  with  the  modes 
■iof  human  society.     In  the  (irst,  we  find  geography,  chro- 


102  LECTURES    ON 

nology,  and  propriety  of  costume  and  manners,  set  at  defi- 
ance. In  the  second  we  find  unity  of  character,  and  na- 
tural sentiment  and  passion,  treated  with  equal  indiffer- 
ence. If  Shakspeare  can  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  human 
heart,  he  cares  not  to  shipwreck  a  vessel  on  the  coast  of 
Bohemia,  or  to  make  Pundarus  of  Troy  talk  about  Win- 
chester geese.  If  Congreve  can  dazzle  by  his  brilliant 
dialogue,  and  his  smart  repartee,  he  does  not  shrink  from 
putting  the  most  splendid  wit  into  the  mouths  of  his  fools, 
and  exhibiting  characters  who  are  sunk  in  the  depths  of 
disaster,  full  of  sprightliness  and  merriment.  Shakspeare 
makes  us  forget  the  author  ;  Congreve  makes  us  think  of 
no  one  else.  We  rise  from  the  scenes  of  the  first,  over- 
whelmed with  the  sorrows  of  Hamlet,  or  of  Othello,  or  of 
Lear.  We  close  the  pages  of  the  second,  charmed  with 
the  wit,  the  sprightliness,  and  the  vivacity  of  Congreve. 

I  have  chosen  Congreve  as  the  champion  and  exemplar 
of  the  second  school,  because  he  is,  in  many  particulars, 
the  most  eminent  scholar  which  it  has  produced.  Wit  was 
its  grand  distinguishing  feature,  and  Congreve  was  one  of 
the  wittiest  writers  that,  perhaps,  any  age  or  nation  has 
given  birth  to.  But  the  dramatist  has  to  paint  character, 
and  he  who  has  only  one  colour  in  which  to  dip  his  pencil, 
wit,  cannot  produce  a  true,  a  natural,  or  even  a  perma- 
jiently  pleasing  picture.  We  may  gaze  upon  the  sun  till 
we  see  nothing  but  darkling  motes  ;  and  so  Congreve's 
scenes  fatigue  us  by  their  very  brilliancy.  All  his  charac- 
ters are  like  himself,  witty.  They  are,  if  I  may  borrow 
an  image  from  the  Hindoo  Mythology,  all  Avaters  of  the 
author ;  they  have  no  individuality,  no  specific  likenesSo 
What  Churchill  said  of  Quin  as  an  actor,  may  be  applied 
to  Congreve  as  a  writer  : — 

"  Self  still  like  oil  upon  the  surface  play'd, 
And  marr'd  th'  impression  that  the  author  made." 

Still,  as  pictures  of  manner?  and  society,  the  writings 
of  Congreve,  and  his  contemporaries,  and  immediate  pre- 
decessors, are  invaluable.  They  have  made  the  age  of 
furbelows  and  brocade,  shoe-buckles  and  hoop-petticoats, 
live  for  ever.  They  have  rendered  the  parks  classic 
ground.     They  have  made  the  very  air  there,  redolent  of 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  lOS 

wit  and  pleasantry.  Rotten-Row,  the  Mulberry- Walk, 
and  the  Mall,  are  as  immortal  as  the  plains  of  Troy,  or 
the  fields  of  Marathon.  Every  walk,  every  turning,  is 
peopled  with  the  gay  creations  of  Coi.greve,  of  Farquhar, 
and  of  Vanbrugh.  We  expect  to  see  Sir  Fopling  Flutter, 
or  Sir  Harry  fVildair  on  every  bench.  We  tuarthe  gay 
laugh  of  Clarinda  on  every  breeze ;  and  the  stately  figures 
of  Millamont,  and  Belinda,  and  Clarissa^  glide  past  the 
mind's  eye  as  youthful  and  as  bewitching  as  ever. 

Congreve  had,  I  think,  high  tragic  powers,  if  he  had 
chosen  to  exert  them,  and  to  give  them  their  full  and  na- 
tural play.  When  he  wrote  the  "  Mourning  Bride''  he 
thought  it  necessary  -to  mount  himself  upon  stilts.  I  do 
not,  therefore,  refer  to  that  play,  when  I  allude  to  him  as  a 
tragedian.  But  there  are  touches  of  pathos,  and  even  of 
sublimity  in  some  of  his  comic  scenes,  which  show  the 
hand  of  a  master.  The  destitute  condition  of  Valentine 
in  "  Love  for  Love,''  is  strongly,  and  even  powerfully, 
painted  ;  and  the  characters  of  Maskwell,  and  of  Lord 
and  Lady  Touchwood,  in  the  "  Way  of  the  World,'''  are 
full  of  the  poetry  of  passion,  and  of  interest.  The  seri- 
ous scene  in  Vanbrugh's  '■^Provoked  Huaband"  have  been 
much  admired,  but  they  are  nothing  in  comparison  with 
those  in  which  these  characters  appear  ;  and  set  of!'  as 
they  are,  by  the  broad  comedy,  and  almost  farce,  of  Lord 
Frisk,  Brisk,  and  Lady  Pliant,  they  j)roduce  an  effect 
which  reminds  us,  "  not  to  speak  it  profanel}',"  of  that 
produced  by  the  juxtaposition  of  the  Fool  and  Lear. 

Farquhar  has  not  the  wit  of  Congreve,  but  he  has  more 
humour  ;  and  is,  on  the  whole,  a  far  better  dramatist. 
His  plots  are  not  so  elaborately  constructed,  but  they  have 
more  vitality  in  them  ;  they  are  brought  about  in  a  moi-e 
natural  manner  ;  and  the  characters  contribute  more  to 
their  developement.  The  observations  which  I  have  made 
on  the  want  of  individuality,  and  specific  likeness  of  cha- 
racter, will  apply  less  to  the  scenes  of  Farquhar,  than  to 
those  of  any  of  his  contemporaries.  His  characters  are 
often  drawn  iujprobably,  and  out  of  nature,  but  still  they 
are  active  personages,  and  agents  in  the  drama,  which 
cannot  be  very  often  said  of  Congreve.  He  also  pos- 
sesses much  genuine  humour,  as  liis  characters  of  Sir 
Harry  Wildair,  Beau  ClinQlier,  and  Sergeant  Kite,   suffi- 


104  LKCTURKS    ON 

ciently  show.  Farqulmr  has  more  of  the  kindly  spirit  ot 
the  old  English  dramatists  about  him,  than  any  writer  of 
his  times  :  and  is  a  less  bitter  satirist  than  either  Congreve, 
Wycherley,  or  Vanbrugb.  His  airows  are  bright  and  keen, 
but  those  ot  his  contemporaries  are  poisoned :  Farquhar 
makes  the  sides  ache,  but  Vanbrugh  makt- s  the  heart  ache 
alsi>. 

The  last-mentioned  author  is  as  appalling  a  satirist  as 
Swift.  His  j)ictures  of  human  nature  are  hideously  hke; 
they  are  true  to  the  very  wrinkle.  Swift  said  that  he 
hated  the  Ourang  Outang,  becausi  it  was  so  like  us;  and 
so  we  may  say  ol  yanbrugh's  delineations  of  character- 
All  the  vices  of  humanity  are  treasured  up  in  them  ;  yet 
they  are  not  natural  delineations.  They  are  the  bad  parts 
of  human  uature  picked  out  and  separated  from  those  re- 
deeming qualities,  which  scarcely  the  vilest  of  mankind 
are  not  without.  Such  writers  as  Vanbrugh  and  Swift  do 
not  use  the  vices  and  follies  of  mankind  for  the  purpose 
of  instruction  or  amusement ;  but  stand  aloof  from  hu- 
manity like  the  JMepkistoph'des  of  Goethe,  and  make  its 
weaknesses  and  its  crimes  the  objects  of  their  fiend-like 
derision. 

These  three  authors  occupy  the  foremost  places  in  that 
school  of  comedy,  which  llourished  in  England  from  the 
days  of  Charles  the  Second,  to  those  of  Anne.  I  have 
endeavoured,  briefly  and  succinctly,  to  sum  up  their  merit? 
and  defects.  They  were  certainly  vastly  inferior  to  the 
dramatists  of  the  Elizabethan  age  ;  but,  they  were  at 
kast  as  much  superior  to  any  school  which  has  succeeded 
them.  The  Elizabethan  writers  possessed  great  advan- 
tages from  the  character  of  the  times  in  which  they  lived. 
They  revelled  in  the  hoHday  of  intellect ;  in  the  sweet 
spring  morning  of  wit  and  genius,  which  dawned  upon  the 
world  after  the  long  and  Gothic  darkness  of  the  middle 
ages.  The  genius  of  a  Shakspeare  cannot  be  expected 
to  revisit  us,  until  after  the  concurrence  of  circumstances 
similar  to  those  by  which  the  age  in  which  he  existed  was 
preceded.  Like  the  dew  of  the  early  morning,  darkness 
and  gloom  must  once  more  envelope  the  earth,  betbre  we 
can  gaze  upon  it  again. 

The  attack  of  Jeremy  Collier  upon  the  profligacy  anc] 
liccntiousuess  of  the  stage,  although  its  effects  were  nqt 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  '  105 

hnmediately  felt,  ultimately  proved  the  destruction  of  this 
school  of  comedy.  Congreve  confessed  his  fault ;  and 
Vanbrugh  and  Gibber  wrote  the  '^Provoked  Husband,''^  of 
which  the  tendency  is  unexceptionable,  as  an  expiation 
for  the  immorality  of  their  former  productions. 

This  comedy  may  be  said  to  have  given  rise  to  the  sen- 
timental school ;  the  most  meretricious  and  contemptible 
of  all  the  demons  of  dulness  which  ever  possessed  the 
stage.  I  do  not,  of  course,  mean  to  apply  this  censure 
to  the  very  elegant  production  which  I  have  just  men- 
tioned, and  from  which  I  have  considered  this  school  as 
taking  its  rise  ;  nor  to  the  comedies  of  Sir  Richard 
Steele,  who  may  be  ranked  among  its  adherents.  The 
last-mentioned  author  had  a  quiet  natural  vein  of  humour, 
and  a  delicate  perception  of  the  foibles  of  human  cha- 
racter, which  give  great  zest  and  interest  to  his  scenes  : 
though  even  in  his  works  we  find  the  comic  muse  some- 
what abated  of  those  smiles  which  are  hers  by  prescriptive 
right.  She  affects  the  grave  airs  of  her  tragic  sister,  and 
wears  them,  at  the  best,  but  awkwardly.  She  may  smile, 
but  she  never  laughs  : — 

"  Mirth  that  wrinkled  care  derides, 
And  laugliter  holding  both  his  sides," 

ave  banished  from  the  works  of  the  sentimental  writers* 
A  well-bred  simper,  or  a  demure  dimple,  is  the  utmost  ex- 
tent of  hilarity  in  which  tliey  indulge.  What  an  uproar, 
what  a  devastation,  would  the  introduction  of  such  a 
person  as  Sir  John  Falstaff  among  the  dramatis  pcrsonae 
of  our  modern  playwrights,  occasion  !  How  would  Lady 
Elinor  Irwin  receive  the  addresses  of  such  a  person  as  Sir 
Toby  Belch  ?  and  how  would  Old  Dornton  look,  if  he 
found  young  JMaster  Launcelot  Gobbo  capering  about  his 
banking  house  1  In  truth,  this  sentimental  style  of  writing 
is  the  most  artificial  and  worthless  that  was  ever  imposed 
upon  the  public,  in  the  name  of  comedy.  Goldsmith 
wrote  amidst  the  very  hey-day  of  this  fashionable  folly  ; 
hut  he  rolled  his  own  pure  tide  of  wit  and  humour  through, 
and  stainless  and  unmixed  with  the  surrounding  vortex,  as 
the  river  Rhone  rushes  through  the  lake  of  Geneva.  His 
two  admirable  comedies  of  the  "  Good  JSTalured  ./l/an,'* 

O 


lOG  LECTURES    ON 

and  "  She  Sloops  to  Conquer,''^  are  the  greenest  'spots 
in  the  dramatic  waste  of  the  period  of  which  we  are 
speaking.  They  are  worthy  of  the  author  of  the  "  Vicar 
of  JVakeJield ;"  and  to  praise  them  more  highly  is  impos- 
sible. Wit,  without  licentiousness  ;  humour,  without  ex- 
travagance ;  brilliant  and  elegant  dialogue  ;  and  forcible 
but  natural  delineations  of  character ;  are  the  excellen- 
cies with  which  his  pages  are  prodigally  strewn. 

Cumberland  was  the  last,  and  the  best  of  the  sentimen- 
tal school.  His  genius  was  of  too  masculine  a  character 
to  submit  entirely  to  the  fetters  which  the  popular  preju- 
dices would  impose  upon  it ;  and  his  taste  too  pure,  to 
relish  the  sickly  viands  with  which  the  public  appetite  was 
palled.  But,  even  in  the  extinction  of  this  school,  we 
cannot  congratulate  ourselves  in  the  elevation  of  any  thing 
better  in  its  place.  "  Bad  begins,  but  worse  remain  be- 
hind.'' Our  present  lecture  has  been  a  history  of  the 
gradual  declension  of  the  British  drama  : 

•'  We  have  fallen  upon  our  gloomy  days, 
Star  after  star  decays  ; 
Every  bright  name  tliat  shed 
Light  o'er  the  land  is  fled'." 

The  Shakspearean  school  was  succeeded  by  that  of' 
Congreve  :  there  we  sunk  a  step,  but  we  were  on  a  lofty 
eminence  still.  The  Congreve  school  gave  place  to  that  of 
the  sentimental  artists.  This  was  a  more  fearful  declen- 
sion :  but  even  here  we  met  with  elegant  writers,  although 
we  looked  in  vain  for  skilful  or  interesting  dramatists. 
The  next  "  change  that  comes  o'er  the  spirit  of  our 
dream,"  presents  us  with  the  ultra  German  horrors  of 
Lewis,  and  his  school.  This  is  the  very  antipodes  of  the 
sentimental  school :  the  badge  and  banner  of  one  is  the 
cambric  handkerchief;  of  the  other  the  gory  dagger. 
Instead  of  high-flown  sentiments  of  virtue  and  honour,  we 
have  murderers  and  spectres  ;  trap-doors  and  long  cor- 
ridors ;  daggers  and  poison-bowls  ;  faces  whitened  over 
with  meal,  and  hands  looking  as  sanguinary  as  red  paint 
can  make  them.  This  school  has  also  had  its  day,  and 
fallen  into  the  "  sere  and  yellow  leaf,"  to  make  way  for 
juvenile  Roscii,  elephants,  and   rope-dancers  !     Various 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  107 

entertainments  have  since  been  resorted  to  for  the  edifi- 
cation and  amusement  of  the  enlightened  public.     Some- 
times it  has  been  treated  with  the  sight  of  a  monkey  which 
can  dance  on  the  tight  rope  like  a  man;   and  at  others, 
with  a  man  who  can  climb  trees  and  crack  nuts  like  a 
monkey.     For  such  rt  fined  amusements  as  these  have  we 
exchanged  the   gtnius  of  oureaily  dramatists:  a  jewel, 
which,  as  Shylock  says,  "  we  would  not  have  given  for  a 
wilderness  of  monkeys."    Occasionally,  however,  a  gleam 
of  light  has  broken  in  upon   the  general  gloom  of  the 
dramatic  hemisphere  ;  and  the  names  of  Foote,  Garrick, 
Colman  the  elder,  and,  "  the  greatest  is  behind,"  Sheridan, 
show,  amidst  the  surrounding  mass  of  dulness  and  folly, 
like  the  stars  of  heaven,  more  fiery  by  night's  blackness. 
Sheridan  is,  indeed,  a  golden  link  which  connects  us  with 
the  authors  of  better  days.      He  has  wit ;  pure,  polished, 
genuine  wit.     He  has  humour  ;  not,  perhaps,  of  quite  so 
pure  an  order,  a  Utile  forced  and  overstrained,  but  its  root  is 
in  Nature,  whatever  abberralions  it  may  spread  into  in  its 
branches.     His   dialogue   is  of  matchless   brilliancy;  so 
brilliant  as  to  enchain  the  attention,  and  to  blind  us  to  the 
grand  defect  of  his  plays,  their  want  of  action,  and  of  what 
is  technically  called,  business.     This  defect  alone  shuts 
out  Sheridan  from  taking  his  place  by  the  side  of  the  elder 
dramatists,   and   assigns   him  his  situation  a   step  lower 
among  the  writers  of  the  age  of  Charles.     He  is,  how- 
ever, free  from  their  impurities  of  thought  and  language  ; 
their  equal  in  wit,  and  their  superior  in  genuine  humour. 
The  drama  of  the  present  day  is,  with  some  few  excep- 
tions, a  compound  of  all  the  vices  which  characterized 
the  preceding  schools  ;  excepting,  I  am  happy  to  saj',  the 
profligacy  of  the  writers  of  the  restoration.     If  we  are 
dull,  we  are,  at  least,  decent.     The  dramas,  however, 
which  are  now  produced,  are  as  lawless  and  irregular  as 
the  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  school ;  turgid  and  bom- 
bastic as  the  tragedies  which  succeeded  it ;  mawkish  as  the 
comedies  of  the  sentimentalists  ;  and  extravagant  and  out- 
rageous as  the  maddest  productions  of  Germany.     The 
works   of  Joanna   Baillie — unquestionably  tlie    greatest 
dramatist  who  has  aj)peared  here  since  the  restoration, — 
are  driven  from  the  stage  ;  and,  although  Shakspeare  is 
still  endured,  he  is  made  to  bow  his  "  eminent  tops  to  our 


108  LECTIIRP.S    ON 

low  heads  ;"  his  tragedies  must  have  a  happy  ending,  and 
his  comedies  must  be  "  interspersed  with  songs."  But 
then,  the  tricks  ol  Harlequin,  tb.e  niNsteriesofmelodrame, 
the  prancing  ol"  real  horses,  and  the  tumbling  of  real  water, 
these  are  surely  enough  to  conij)ensate  for  the  absence  of 
Shakspeare  and  all  his  trumpery. 

We  have  passed,  it  may  be  thought,  a  severe  censure 
upon  the  present  state  of  the  English  dran)a ;  but,  we  speak 
it  "  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger."  When  we  consider  the 
splendid  heritage  of  talent  and  genius  which  we  derive 
from  our  ancestors  ;  when  we  recollect  the  immortal  pro- 
ductions which  have  been  bequeathed  to  the  English 
stage,  from  the  days  of  Shakspeare  to  those  of  Sheridan; 
•when  we  mark,  too,  the  energy  and  intelligence  of  the 
present  day,  as  shown  in  every  other  quarter,  while  the 
stage  alone  is  usurped  by  imhf  rility  and  dulness ;  the 
mingled  feelings  of  shame  and  astonishment  are  too  pow- 
erful for  their  expression  to  be  repressed.  The  causes  of 
this  national  degredation  are  various.  One  of  the  most 
obvious  and  powerful,  unquestionably  is  the  enormous  size 
of  the  theatres.  Tl>e  music  of  the  voice,  the  magic  of  the 
eye,  the  passion  and  propriety  of  the  gestures,  these  are 
the  true  and  legitimate  elements  of  dramatic  effect ;  but 
these,  in  the  immense  area  upon  which  they  are  exerted, 
are  lost  to  the  largest  proportion  of  the  auditory.  Hence, 
the  actor  distorts  his  features,  strains  his  voice,  and  throws 
himself  into  violent  and  unnatural  attitudes ;  and  when  it 
is  at  length  found  that  even  these  fail  of  producing  the 
requisite  effect,  then  pomp  and  show,  decoration  and  noise, 
unmeaning  bustle  and  preposterous  parade,  are  called  in 
to  fjll  up  the  melancholy  hiatus. 

Accordingly,  the  managers  and  the  public  sustain  a  re- 
action from  each  other  ;  the  former  create  in  the  latter  an 
appetite  for  spectacle  and  show  ;  and  the  appetite  thus 
created  in  the  latter,  calls  upon  the  former  for  fresh  efforts 
to  gratify  it.  Thus  the  state  of  things  may  be  prolonged 
ad  injinitum,  unless  some  voice  should  be  raised  sufficiently 
powerful  to  induce  a  change  of  system. 

But,  potent  as  are  the  causes  to  which  we  have  last 
alluded,  in  promoting  the  degeneracy  of  the  drama,  still  it 
must  not  be  disguised  that  these  are  not  solely  the  origin 
Qf  the  evil,     The  incompetency  of  the  authors  in  whose 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  109 

hands  rests  the  task  of  winning  the  public  taste  back  to 
the  legitimate  drama,  is  another,  and  not  less  influential 
cause.  The  spectacles  and  pagrants  with  which  the 
managers  feast  the  eyes  of  iheir  audiences,  are,  as  nearly 
as  possible,  perfect  in  their  way.  The  tragedies  and 
comedies  which  are  occasionally  pioduced,  are  the  far- 
thest possible  removed  from  the  standard  to  which  they'- 
aspire.  The  public  chooses  between  them  ;  and  we  can 
^•arcely  blame  its  decision  : — 

"  Now  forced,  at  length,  her  ancient  reign  to  quit, 
Nature  sees  Dulness  laytl.e  ghost  of  Wit ; 
Exulting  Folly  liails  the  joyous  day, 
And  Pantomime  and  Song  confirm  her  sway." 


110  LECTURES    ON 


LECTURE  THE  FIFTH. 


DIDACTIC,    DESCRIPTIVE,    PASTORAL,    AND    SATIRICAL 

POETRY. 

Nature  of  Didactic  and  Descriptive  Poefry  : — Death  and  Life, 
the  earliest  specimen  of  English  Blank  \erse  : — Bishop 
Hall's  Satires: — Brown's  Pastorals: — Donne: — Butler's 
Hudihras  : — Dryden,  Pope,  Akenside,  Dyer,  Armstrong, 
Young,  and  Goldsmith  : — Thomson's  Seasons: — Cowper. 

Our  lectures  have  already  exhausted  the  more  interest- 
ing topics,  which  a  review  of  the  history  and  merits  of 
English  poetry  presents  to  our  consideration.     The  har- 
vest is  past ;  and,  we  have  now  little  more  to  do,  than  i& 
garner   in   the    comparatively    scanty    gleanings,    which 
remain  behind.     The  subject  of  the  present  lecture  is 
English  didactic,  and  descriptive  poetry  ;  including  pas- 
toral and  satire.     The  didactic  muse  has  been  called  "  the 
least  attractive  of  the  nine  ;"  but  if  she  has  less  beauty, 
she  has,  perhaps,  more  truth  than  her  sisters.     If  she  can- 
not soar  as  high,  she  treads  more  firmly.     She  addresses 
herself,  not  to  the  imagination  and  the  heart,  but  to  the 
understanding.     She  seeks  not  to  please  the  fancy,  but  to 
improve  the  mind.     She  is,  in  fact,  however,  scarcely  a 
legitimate  denizen  of  the  world  of  poetry.     She  is  too 
nearly  allied  to  prose,  to  mingle  quite  freely  and  grace- 
fully with  those  gay  "  creatures  of  the  elements,"  who 
peopled  the  regions  of  fancy.     She  is   an  amphibious 
animal ;  "  parcel  woman,  parcel  fish."     She  has  powers 
which    those   who   are    exclusively  confined   to   either 
element,  do  not  possess ;  but  then  in  neither  does  she 
move  with  the  same  freedom  and  unconstrainedness  as  they 
do.     She  has  not  the  real  sober  prose  step  of  the  histo- 
rian and  the  essayist,  any  more  than  she  has  the  bold  and 
fearless  pinion  of  the  epic  poet,  and  the  dramatist.     She 
lias  not  "  angelic  wings,  nor  feeds  on  manna."     She  has 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  Ill 

rather  the  wings  of  the  flying-fish,  which,  for  a  moment, 
elevate  her  towards  the  heaven  of  poetr)-,  whence  she 
soon  sinks  exhausted,  into  her  own  native  element  of 
prose. 

The  works  of  the  descriptive  and  pastoral  muses  are  to 
the  epic  and  the  drama,  what  a  tiim  and  elegant  flower- 
garden  is  to  the  wildness  and  magnificence  of  unadorned 
nature  ;  who  is,  "  when  unadorned,  adorned  the  most.'* 
The  descriptive  passages  which  spring  up  amidst  all  the 
awfulness  and  sublimity  of  Shnkspeare  and  Milton,  are 
like  the  delicious  fruits  and  fragrant  flowers  which  are 
found  among  the  grandest  and  niost  terrific  passages  of 
Alpine  scenery ;  while  the  coniinuous  descriptions  of 
Thomson  and  Cowper,  are  like  flowers  of  every  imagi- 
nable form"  and  hue,  exotic  and  native,  got  together  and 
crowded  into  one  bed.  They  bring  hoiije  to  those  who 
cannot  go  in  search  of  them,  those  treasures  of  nature, 
which  bolder  spirits  are  content  to  scale  Alpine  steeps, 
and  dive  amidst  mountain  torrents  to  attain.  The  mind 
is  not  always  prepared  to  accompany  Shakspeare  or 
Milton  in  their  daring  flights,  any  more  than  the  body  is 
always  at  leisure  to  undertake  a  journey  to  the  Andes,  or 
the  Apennines.  Then  the  pages  of  Goldsmith,  and 
Thomson,  and  Cowper,  yield  as  much  enjoyment  to  the 
one,  as  the  velvet  lawn  and  the  gaily  ornamented  parterre 
do  to  the  other. 

English  poetry  has  been,  from  the  earliest  period,  as 
rich  in  description  as  the  English  taste  has  been  observed 
to  be  particularly  attached  to  external  nature.  The  hum- 
blest and  most  closely  confined  denizens  of  our  English 
cities  have  been  remarked  by  foreigneis  to  cherish  this 
taste  in  the  possession  of  a  box  of  mignonette,  a  vase  of 
flowers,  or  a  solitary  myrtle,  or  geranium.  So,  too,  in 
the  most  humble  of  our  versifiers,  if  they  possess  any 
poetical  powers  at  all,  they  will  be  roused  into  action  by 
the  inspiration  excited  on  beholding  the  face  of  nature. 

The  earliest  English  poets  were  fond  and  acute  ob- 
servers of  nature.  The  touches  of  scenic  description  in 
the  ancient  ballads  are  numerous  and  beautifiil ;  and 
Percy  has  preserved  a  fine  relic  of  an  old  descriptive 
poem,  entitled  "  Deatli  and  Life,^'  the  beauties  of  which 
cannot  fail  to  be  perceived,   even  through   the  veil  of 


1 13  LECTURES    ON 

uncouth  and  antique  language  in  which  they  are  enveloped. 
The  poem  is  supposed  by  Percy  to  have  been  written  as 
early  as,  if  not  earlier  than,  the  time  of  Langbaine  ;  and 
it  is  curious,  as  the  oldest  specimen  of  blank  verse  in  our 
language.  The  following  is  an  allegorical  description 
of  life  : — 

"  She  was  brighter  of  her  blee,  than  was  tlie  bright  sonne  ; 
Her  nuld  redder  than  the  rose,  that  on  the  rise  liangeth. 
Meekly  smiling  with  her  mouth,  and  merry  in  her  lookes  ; 
Ever  laughing  for  love,  as  she  the  like  wolde. 
And  as  shee  came  by  the  banks,  the  boughs  eche  one 
They  lowted  to  that  ladye,  and  lay'd  forth  their  branches  ; 
Blossoms  and  burgens  breathed  full  sweete  : 
Flowers  flourished  in  the  frith,  where  she  forth  stepp'd  ; 
And  the  grass  that  was  gray,  greened  behve." 

But  it  is  to  that  golden  age  of  our  literature,  the  reign  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  that  we  must  look  for  the  earliest,  and 
some  of  the  best,  specimens  of  satire  and  pastoral ;  con- 
sidered as  a  class  of  poetry,  distinct  from,  and  unmixed 
with,  any  other.  I  allude  more  particularly  to  the  satires 
of  Bishop  Hall,  and  the  ^'  Brilannia's  Pastorals^'  of  Wil- 
liam Browne  ;  two  names  which,  I  believe,  are  still 
"  caviare  to  the  million ;"  are  unknown  to  the  general 
reader  ;  and  are  not  admitted  into  many  of  the  collections 
of  the  general  body  of  English  poetry.  To  Mr.  Warton 
the  public  are  indebted  for  having  first  drawn  their  atten- 
tion to  the  beauties  of  Hall.  This  powerful  and  truly 
original  writer  is  the  earlit^st  professed  satirist  among  our 
poets  ;  and  he  has  himself  alluded  to  that  fact  with  a  proud 
and  pardonable  egotism  : — • 

"  I  first  adventure,  follow  me  who  Hst, 
And  be  the  second  English  satirist." 


o 


His  satires,  besides  their  own  intrinsic  poetical  excel-! 
lencies,  are  valuable  to  the  antiquary  as  presenting  a  most 
vivid  and  faithful  picture  of  the  manners  of  our  ancestors  ; 
their  fashions,  follies,  vices,  and  peculiarities.  These  Hall 
has  touched  with  a  powerful  and  unsparing  hand.  Scrib- 
blers, lawyers,  parsons,  physicians,  all  those  unfortunate 
classes  of  men,  who  have,  from  time  immemorial,  enjoyed 


ENGLISH  POETRY.  US 

tli<j  unenvied  privilege  of  attracting  the  peciiiiar  notice  of 
the  satiric  muse,  are  by  him  laid  baro  and  shrinking  to  the 
scorn  and  hatred  of  mankind.  Hall  is,  1  believe,  well 
known  as  a  divine  ;  his  sermons  and  meditations  having- 
procured  him  a  high  rank  am.ong  polemical  writers.  It 
is  my  object,  however,  to  notice  him  merely  as  a  poet, 
and  I  shall,  therefore,  make  a  i'ew  extracts  from  his 
satires.  The  following  tirade  against  the  legal  profession 
is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  force  and  fearlessness  of  hi^ 
style  : — 

"  Wo  to  the  weal,  where  many  lawyers  be, 
For  there  is  sure  much  store  of  malady  : 
'Twas  truly  said,  and  truly  was  foreseen, 
The  fat  kine  are  devoured  of  the  lean. 
Genus  and  species  long  since  barefoot  went 
Upon  their  ten  toes  in  wild  wonderment  ; 
Whiles  father  Bartol  on  his  footcloth  rode. 
Upon  high  pavement,  gaily  silver-strew'd. 
Each  home-bred  science  perchcth  in  the  chair, 
While  sacred  arts  grovel  on  the  groundsel!  bare.; 
Since  pedling  barbarisms  'gan  be  in  request, 
Nor  classic  tongues,  nor  learning  found  no  rest. 
The  crouching  client  with  low  bended  knee, 
And  many  worships  and  fair  flattery. 
Tells  on  his  tale  as  smoothly  as  he  list ; 
But  still  the  lawyer's  eye  squints  on  his  fist  ; 
If  that  seem  lined  with  a  larger  fee, 
Doubt  not  the  suit,  the  law  is  plain  for  tliee. 
Though  must  he  buy  his  vainer  hope  with  price. 
Disclout  his  crowns,  and  thaiik  him  for  advice. 
So  liave  I  seen,  in  a  tempestuous  stowre, 
Some  brier  bush  show  shelter  Irom  the  showev 
Unto  the  hopeful  sheep,  that  fain  would  hide 
His  fleecy  coat  from  that  same  angry  tide  : 
The  ruthless  brier,  regardless  of  Ins  plight, 
Lays  hold  upon  the  fle(3ce  he  should  acquitc  , 
And  takes  advantage  of  the  careless  prey, 
That  thought  she  in  securer  shelter  lay. 
The  day  is  fiir,  the  sheep  would  far  to  feed. 
The  tyrant  brier  holds  fast  his  shelter's  rneodj 
And  claims  it  for  the  fee  of  his  defence, 
So  robs  the  sheep  in  favour's  fair  pretence  '' 


114  LECTURES     ON 

The  following  lines  are  in  ridicule  of  the  amatory  poetry 
of  the  age,  and  of  the  exaggerated  compliments  which  the 
poets  addressed  to  their  mistresses  : — 

"  As  »vitty  Pontan  in  great  earnest  said, 
Ills  mistress'  breasts  wen;  like  two  weights  of  lead  ; 
Ancjllier  thinks  her  teeth  in;ght  hkcri'd  be, 
To  two  fair  ranks  of  pales  of  ivory  ; 
To  fence  in,  sure,  the  wihl  beast  of  her  tongue, 
Frf>m  either  going  far,  or  going  wrong  ; 
Her  grmders  hke  two  chalk-stones  in  a  mill, 
Wliieh  shall  witli  time  and  wearing  wax  as  ill 
As  old  Calillas,  who  doth  every  nfght 
Lay  up  her  holy  pegs  till  next  daylight. 
And  with  them  grind  soft  simp'ring  all  the  day  ; 
When,  lest  her  laughter  should  her  mouth  betray, 
Her  hands  must  hide  it ;  if  slie  would  but  smile, 
Fain  would  she  seem  all  fire,  and  frolic  still  : 
Her  forehead  fair  is  like  a  brazen  hill. 
Whose  wrinkled  furrows  which  her  age  doth  breeds, 
Are  daubed  full  of  Venice  chalk  for  need  ; 
Her  eyes,  like  silver  saucers  fHir  beset 
With  shining  amber,  and  with  shady  let ; 
Her  lids  like  Cupid's  bow-case,  where  he'll  hide 
The  weapon  that  doth  wound  the  wanton  eyed  : 
Her  chin,  like  Pindus',  or  Parnassus'  hill, 
Where  down  descends  the  flowing  stream,  doth  fdl 
The  well  of  her  fair  mouth.     Each  hath  his  praise, 
Who  would  not  but  wed  Poets  now-a-days !" 

That  Hall  could  compliment  as  elegantly  ;  as  he  could 
satirize  unsparingly,  a  short  epigram  will,  however,  amply 
prove.     It  is  entitled, — 

"ON  MR.  GREENHAM'S  BOOK  OF  THE  SABBATH. 

While  Greenham  writeth  on  the  J^abbath's  rest, 
His  soul  enjoys  not  what  his  pen  exprest : 
His  work  enjoys  not  what  itself  doth  say, 
For  it  shall  never  find  one  resting  day. 
A  thousand  hands  shall  toss  each  page  and  line, 
Which  sliall  be  scanned  by  a  thousand  eyne. 
This  Sabbath's  rest,  or  that  Sabbath's  unrest, 
'Tis  hard  to  say  which  is  the  happiest." 


ENGLISH    POETRT.  1 1$ 

Brown  is  one  of  the  sweetest  pastoral  writers  in  the 
^vK)rld.  It  has  been  complained,  that  English  literature, 
however  ricii  in  other  respects,  is  very  defective  in  pasto- 
ral poetry ;  but  this  is  a  com[)laint  which  can  only  be 
made  by  crifics  who  are  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  such 
a  writer  as  Brown.  Of  the  more  popular  pastorals,  the 
articial  aftectations  of  Shcnstone,  Phillips,  Hammond,  and 
a  thousand  others,  I  wish  to  say  little  or  nothing.  The 
tinsel  is  by  this  time  pretty  well  rubbed  oif  the  meretri- 
cious baubles  which  so  long  pleased  the  public  taste ;  and 
the  trumjjery  materials  of  which  all  their  finery  was  com- 
posed, is  beginning  to  be  properly  appreciated.  A  poem 
is  no  longer  supposed  to  be  wonderfully  natural  and  pas- 
toral, merely  because  it  makes  love  rhyme  to  dove ; 
breeze  to  trees  ;  and  mountains  to  fountains.  The  shep- 
herds and  sheplierdppses,  or  rather  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men in  disguise,  like  the  Beef-eaier  in  Sheridan's  "Critic,^^ 
who  sat  upon  green  hiliocks,  with  pastoral  pipes  in  their 
hands,  talking  about  love  and  Arcadia,  have  been  dis- 
covered to  be  very  insipid  and  unnatural  personages,  ever 
since  readers  have  made  use  of  their  eyes,  looked  into 
the  world  and  nature  for  themselves,  and  found  that  no 
such  society,  or  scenery,  is,  or  ever  was,  in  existence. 
Brown  is  a  writer  thoroughly  and  entirely  English.  His 
scenery  is  English.  He  [taints  not  Arcadia,  or  Utopia  ; 
but  he  takes  us  to  the  leafy  shores  of  Devon,  and  the  fer- 
tile banks  of  Tamar,  and  describes  their  beauties  with  the 
ardour  of  a  lover,  and  the  truth  of  a  painter.  He  does 
not  introduce  us  to  Naiads,  or  Dryads  ;  to  Pan,  or  to 
Apollo;  but  to  the  fair  and  smiling  faces  with  which  our 
own  green  fields  are  peopled,  and  to  the  rustic  manners  of 
the  English  villages.  His  music  is  not  of  the  oaten  stop,  or 
of  the  pastoral  pipe,  or  of  the  wild  harp  of  antiquity  ;  but 
of  the  ploughman's  whistle,  the  milkmaid's  song,  the  sheep- 
bell,  minstrelsy  rung  out  from  beneath  some  neighbouring 
spire.  Shepherds  piping  all  night  under  some  hawthorn 
bush  are  not  often  seen  in  our  northern  climate  ;  the 
dryads,  and  nyni[)hs,  and  satyrs,  harmonize  as  ill  with  the 
features  of  English  scenery,  as  Di'.  Bentley,  in  the  cele- 
brated picture  which  decorates  a  certain  public  building  in 
London,  swimming  with  his  wig  and  gown  on,  in  the 
Thames,  does  with  the  water  nymphs  and  tritons  who  sur- 


lib'  LKCTUKES     ON 

round  him.  Brown  confines  himself  to  the  scenery,  and 
to  the  manners,  which  he  has  seen  and  known.  His 
works,  althou»h  lull  of  truth  and  nature,  are  rich  in  poetry 
and  imaghiation  :  for  to  these  naUirc  and  truth  arc  not 
opposed,  but  arc  the  best  and  surest  ins[)irers  and  auxilia- 
ries. The  poet's  address  to  England  is  full  of  patriotisin 
and  feeling : — 

"  Hail !  thou  my  native  soil,  thou  blessed  spot 
Whose  equal  all  the  world  aftbrdeth  not  ; 
Show  me,  who  can,  so  many  crystal  nils, 
Such  well-clothed  valleys,  or  aspiriiif^f  hills; 
Such  wood-grounds,  pastures,  quarries,  wealthy  mines'',- 
Such  rocks,  in  whom  the  diamond  fairly  shines  ; 
And  if  the  earth  can  show  the  like  again. 
Yet  will  she  fail  in  her  sea-ruHn^  men."" 


'o 


Brown,  however,  in  enumerating  the  excellent  pro- 
ductions of  our  native  Island,  has  very  ungallantly  omitted 
one,  which  did  not  escape  the  notice  of  Thomson,  wherj 
making  a  similar  enumeration  : — 

"  May  my  song  soften,  as  thy  daughters,  I, 
Britannia  !  hail,  for  beauty  is  their  own."' 

I  subjoin  one  other  instance  of  liis  descriptive  powers, 
which  is  said,  by  those  acquainted  with  the  scenery  de- 
scribed,— the  banks  of  the  Tamar,  in  Devonshire, — to  be' 
an  extraordinarily  faithful  delineation  of  the  spot : — 

"  Between  two  rocks,  immortal  without  mother, 
Tiiat  stand  as  if  outfacing  one  another, 
There  ran  a  creek  np,  intricate  and  blind. 
As  if  the  waters  liid  them  from  the  wind, 
Which  never  wash'd,  hut  at  a  higher  tide. 
The  frizzled  cotes  which  do  the  mountains  hide  ; 
Where  never  gale  was  longer  known  to  stay, 
Than  from  tiie  smooth  wave  it  had  swept  away 
The  new  divorced  leaves,  that  from  each  side 
Left  the  thick  boughs  to  dance  out  with  the  tide. 
At  further  end  the  creek,  a  stately  wood 
*j}ave  H  kind  shadow  to  the  brackish  flood  ; 


ENGLISH    POETKY.  lit 

Made  up  of  trees,  not  less  kenn'd  by  each  skiff, 
Than  that  sky-scaling  peak  ofTeneriffe  ; 
Upon  whose  tops  tlie  hernshaw  bred  her  young, 
And  hoary  moss  upon  their  branches  hung  ; 
Whose  rugged  rinds  sufficient  were  to  show, 
Without  their  height,  what  time  they  'gan  to  grow." 

Donne  is  another  of  our  best  ancient  satirists,  and  was 
also,  like    Hall,  a  dignified  prelate  ;  having  been  rectoo:' 
of  St.  Dunstan's  in  the  West,  and  dean  of  St.  Paul's.     He 
•was  the  founder  of  that  school  in  poetry  which  has  been 
somewhat  in)properly  styled  the  metaphysical ;  which  at- 
tained its  greatest  elevation  in  Cowley,  and  may  be  said 
to  have  become  extinct  with  Spratt.     Donne  is  as  full  of 
far-fetched  conceits,  and  recondite  illustrations,  or  rather 
obscurations,  as  Cowley  ;  without,  however,  being  pos- 
sessed of  any  thing   approaching  to   the  same  genuine 
poetical  powers.     Still  he  is  a  writer  of  great  fancy  and 
ingenuity.     His  satires  are  more  remarkable  for  wit,  than 
for  severity.     He  laughs  at  vice  and  lolly  ;  but  holds  them 
up  to  derision,  rather  than  overwhelms  them  with  punish- 
ment ;  and,  in  this  respect,  offers  many  points  of  contrast 
to  his  brother  satirist,   Hall,   of  whom  I  have  just  been 
speaking.     The  first  points  out  the  deformity  of  vice  ;  the 
other  exhibits  its  danger.      One  holds  it  up  to  derision; 
the  other  to  execration.     One  exposes  it  to  the  gibes  and 
jeers  of  the  world ;  the  other  devotes  it  to  the  axe,  the 
scourge,  and  the  gibbet. 

Butler's  "  Hudibras^'  is  a  production  of  matchless  wit 
and  fancy  ;  but  the  construction  of  the  story,  and  the  de- 
lineation of  the  characters,  have  been  praised  far  beyond 
their  merits.  In  these  particulars  it  has  very  slender 
claims  to  originality,  Cervantes  is  evidently  the  model 
which  Butler  followed ;  and  Hudibras  is  Don  Quixote 
turned  puritan.  He  has  exchanged  the  helmet  of  Mal- 
brino  for  the  close  cap  of  Geneva.  Instead  of  encounter- 
ing giants  and  enchanters  ;  he  wages  war  with  papists  and 
pielatists.  Instead  of  couching  his  lance  at  tilts  and  tour- 
naments; he  mounts  the  pulpit,  and  harangues  the  "long- 
eared"  multitude.  He  is  not  quite  so  unsophisticated  a 
lunatic  as  Quixote.  When  his  own  interest  is  concerned^ 
\m   apprehension   becomes   wonderfully  keener.     Likfi 


118  LECTURES    ON 

Hamlet,  he  is  but  "  mad  north-north-west;  when  the  wind 
is  southerly,  he  knows  a  hawk  from  a  hantl-saw."    Ralpho, 
in  Hke  manner,  is  but   a  conventicle  edition  of  Sancho  ; 
but  who  can  wonder  that   Butler  should  have  failed   in 
copyin;^  from  such  models  as  these  ?     The  Knight  of  La 
Mancha  is,  like  Shakspeare's  Richard,  "  himself — alone!" 
The  book  in  which  his  adventures  are  recorded,  is — shall 
I  say  perfect  ?     Perhaps,  I  may  not  apply  such  an  epithet 
to  the  production  of  human  genius  ;  but  it  is  n)atchless,  it 
is  unimitated,  it  is  inimitable.     It  is,  however,  possible  to 
be  a  great  and  powerful  genius,  and  yet  to  be  inferior  to 
Cervantes :  such  is  Butler.     His  book  cannot  be  expected 
to  be  so  fascinating,  for  its  subject  is  far  more  repulsive. 
The  knight*s  greatest  weaknesses  are  amiable,  and  of  vices 
he  has  none.     We  sympathize  in  all  his  misfortunes,  and 
almost  wish  him  success  in  his  wildest  enterprises.     We 
can  hardly  help  quarrelling  with  the  windmills  for  resisting 
his  attack  ;  and  fee!  inclined  to  tilt  a  lance  in  support  of 
his  chivalrous  assault  upon  the  flock  of  sheep.     Butler 
certainly  might  have  made  the  fanaticism  of  Hudibras  more 
amiable,  and  more  sincere,  without  at  all  weakening  either 
the  truth  or  the  comic  force  of  the  picture.     As  it  is,  we 
rather  turn  from  it  with  disgust,  than  gaze  upon  it  with 
enjoyment.     These  observations,  however,  apply  only  to 
our  author's  delineations  of  character,  and  not  to  the  fine 
touches  of  satire,  and  to  the- keen  and  profound  observa- 
tions on  morals  and  manners,  in  which  his  work  is  so  rich. 
His  genius  was  not  dramatic,  but  didactic.     He  was  not 
an  inventor,  but  an  observer.     His   satire  is  keen  and 
caustic  ;  his  wit  brilliant  and  delightful.     His  knowledge 
of  the  arts  and  sciences  appears  to  have  been  profound  ; 
and  he  has  brought  a  wonderful  variety  of  attainment  and 
research  to  the  embellishment  of  his  poem.     He  has  also 
enriched  it  with  many  beauties  of  thought  and  diction, 
which  form  a  strong  contrast  to  its  general  ludicrous  cast 
and  character.     Nothing,  for  instance,  can  be  finer  than 
the  following  lines  : — 

"  The  Moon  put  off  her  veil  of  light 
That  hides  her  by  the  day  from  sight  : 
Mysterious  veil !  of  brightness  made, 
That's  both  her  lustre  and  their  shade." 


ENGLISH  POETRT.  119 

This,  besides  being  poetically  beautiful,  is  I'liilosophically 
true  ;  the  rays  of  the  sun  being  the  cause  of  our  seeing 
the  moon  by  night,  and  of  our  not  seeing  her  by  day. 

Dryden  occupies  the  fort^ui.ist  place  in  the  foremost 
ranks  of  English  didactic  writers.  We  have  already  had 
occasion  to  speak  of  him  as  a  narrative  and  dranriatic  poet, 
and  shall,  therefore,  be  proportionably  brief  in  our  obser- 
vations upon  his  ui^'rits  in  the  present  instance.  His 
satire  is  appalling  and  tremendous  ;  and  not  the  less  so, 
for  its  extreme  polish  and  splendour.  Ir  excites  our 
indignation  against  its  objects,  not  only  on  account  of  the 
follies,  or  faults,  which  it  imputes  to  them,  but  also  on 
account  of  their  writhing  beneath  the  intiiction  of  so 
splendid  a  weapon.  We  forget  the  ofll't  nder  in  the  awful^ 
ness  and  majesty  of  the  power  by  which  he  is  crushed. 
Instead  of  shrinking  at  the  horror  of  the  carnage,  we  are 
lost  in  admiration  of  the  brilliancy  of  the  victory.  Like 
the  lightning  of  heaven,  the  satire  of  Dryden  throws  a 
splendour  around  the  object  which  it  destroys.  He  lias 
immortalized  the  persons  whom  he  branded  with  infamy 
and  contempt ;  for  who  would  have  ren.embered  Shadwell, 
if  he  had  not  been  handed  down  to  everlasting  fame  as 
Mac  Flecnoe  ? 

Pope  is  usually  ranked  in  the  school  of  Dryden,  but  he 
has  few  either  of  the  faults  or  excellencies  of  his  master. 
To  begin  %vith  that  for  which  he  has  been  most  lauded,  his 
versification  is  vastly  inferior  to  that  of  Dryden.  What  he 
has  gained  in  ease  and  sweetness,  he  has  lost  in  majesty  and 
power.  Diyden  left  our  English  versification  at  a  point 
from  which  it  has  sifice  rather  retrograded  tlian  advanced. 
Pope  polished  and  levelled  it ;  but  he  polibhed  away  much 
of  its  grandeur,  as  well  as  of  its  roughness,  and  levelled 
the  rocks  which  impelled,  as  well  as  the  stones  which 
impeded,  its  majestic  current.  Pope  had  fewer  opportu-^ 
nities  for  observation  than  Dryden,  and  perhaps  improved 
those  which  he  had,  less  than  he  did.  But  he  had  a  finer 
fancy,  and  1  am  almost  inclined  to  say,  in  opposition  to 
the  popular  opinion,  that  he  possessed  more  genius.  I 
know  of  nothing  so  original  and  imaginative  in  the  whole 
range  of  Dryden's  poetry  as  the  "  Rope  of  tlie  Lock  ;''^ 
no  descriptions  of  nature  which  can  con^pare  with  those 
in  Pope's  "  Windsor  Foreat ;"  and  nothing  so  tender  ancj 


120  LECTURES    Oi\ 

feeling  as  many  parts  of  the  ''Elegy  on  the  Death  of 
an  unfortunate  Lady,^^  and  the  "  Epistle  from  Eloisa  to 
Jlbelard.^'  Pope's  satire,  however,  is  neither  so  keen  nor 
so  bright  as  that  of  Dryden  ;  whom  he  attacks,  he  butch- 
ers ;  whom  he  cuts,  he  mangles.  He  shows  us  not  the 
lifeless  carcass  of  his  victim,  but  the  wiithings  and  tortured 
limbs.  We  never  feel  any  thing  like  sympathy  for  the 
object  of  Dryden's  satire.  His  seems  to  be  the  fiat  of 
unerring  justice,  which  it  would  be  almost  impiety  to  dis- 
])ute.  Pope  exhibits  more  of  the  accuser  than  the  judge. 
Petty  interests,  and  personal  malice,  instead  of  love  of 
justice,  and  a  hatred  of  vice,  appear  to  be  the  powers  which 
nerve  his  arm.  The  victim  is  sure  to  fall  beneath  his 
blowr,  but  the  deed,  however  righteous,  inspires  us  with  no 
very  a^ectionate  feelings  for  his  executioner. 

Akenside's  ''  Pleasures  of  Imagination'^  is  a  very  brilliant 
and  pleasing  production.  Every  page  shows  the  refined 
taste  and  cultivated  mind  of  the  author.  That  it  can 
strictly  be  called  a  work  of  genius,  I  am  not  prepared 
to  admit.  The  ideas  are  not  generally  new ;  and  I  am 
afraid  that  they  are  often  even  commonplace.  They  are 
clothed,  however,  in  elegant  versification ;  they  are  illus- 
trated with  much  variety,  and  ingenuity ;  and  they  invari- 
ably tend  to  the  advancement  of  good  taste,  and  good 
feeling.  Occasionally,  too,  Akenside  soars  beyond  his 
ordinary  height,  as  in  his  description  of  the  soul: — 

"  The  high  born  Soul 
Disdains  to  rest  her  heav'n-aspiring  wing 
Beneath  its  native  quarry.     Tired  of  earth, 
And  this  diurnal  scene,  she  springs  aloft ; 
Through  fields  of  air  pursues  the  flying  storm, 
And,  yoked  with  whirlwinds,  and  the  northern  blast, 
►Sweeps  the  long  track  of  day." 

This  passage,  however,  is  remarkable  for  a  confusion  of 
metaphors  of  which  Akenside  is  not  very  often  guilty. 
The  "  native  quarry"  of  a  wing  would,  1  fear,  very  much 
puzzle  any  painter  to  represent  accurately. 

His  hymns  and  odes  have  long  since  fallen  into  oblivion, 
and  I  do  not  feel  inclined  to  disturb  their  rest.  His 
inscriptions,  however,  have  an  attic  terseness  and  force, 
r<.'^'iich  are  unequalled  by  any  productions  of  the  same 


ENr.LlSH    i'OETRV.  121 

class  in  our  language,  excepting,  perhaps,  by  a  few  of  our 
contemporary,  Soutliey's.  One  example  of  Akenside's 
in:?criptions — that  for  a  column  at  Hunnymede, — will 
suffice  : — 

'^  Thou,  who  the  verdant  plain  dost  traverse  here, 
While  Thames  among  his  willows  from  thy  view 
Retires,  oh  stranger !  stay  thee,  and  around, 
The  scene  contemplate  well.      This  is  the  place 
Where  England's  ancient  barons,  clad  in  arms, 
And  stern  with  conquest,  from  the  tyrant  king, 
Then  render'd  tame,  did  challenge  and  secure 
■^I'he  charter  of  thy  freedom.     Pass  not  on 
Till  thou  hast  bless'd  their  memory,  and  paid 
Those  thanks,  which  God  appointed  the  reward 
Of  public  virtue.     And  if  chance,  thy  home 
Salute  thee  with  a  father's  honoured  name. 
Go,  call  thy  sons,  instruct  them  what  a  debt 
They  owe  their  ancestors  ;   and  make  them  swear 
To  pay  it,  by  transmitting  down  entire. 
The  sacred  rights  to  which  themselves  were  born  !" 

Dyer's  and  Armstrong's  didactic  poems  are  written  upon 
subjects  which  do  not  seem  peculiarly  qualified  to  lend 
inspiration  to  the  muse  ;  that  of  the  first  being  Sheep- 
shearing,  and  that  of  the  second,  Physic.  They  have 
both,  however,  been  more  successful  with  those  subjects 
than  coulil  have  been  reasonably  expected.  Dyer  is, 
nevertheless,  better,  and  deserves  to  be  better  remem- 
bered, as  the  poet  of  "  Grongar-Hill,''''  than  of  the 
"  Fleece ;"  and  Armstrong  in  his  "  ^drt  of  Preserving 
IleahlC  has  done  wonders  with  a  somewhat  repulsive 
theme.  He  pleads  hard  in  favour  of  its  aptness  for  poet- 
ical illustration,  and  reminds  us  that  the  ancients  acknow- 
ledged "  one  power  of  physic,  melody,  and  song."  This, 
however,  is,  I  fear,  less  calculated  to  allure  than  to  repejL 
the  readers  of  poetry,  and  to  have  the  same  effect  upoij 
them,  as  Apollo's  own  enumeration  of  his  accomplislb- 
ments  had  upon  Dajthne  v\^hom  he  was  pursuing  ; — 

"Stay,  stay,  gentle  maiden,  why  urge  thus  your  flight, 
I  'rn  the  great  god  of  song,  and  of  pliysic,  and  light, 
At  the  dreadful  w(jrd  |)hysic  the  nym[)h  Ucd  more  fa^t^ 
At  the  fatal  word  physic  she  doubled  her  hast'^." 


122  LECTURES    05 

This  poem  contains  one  very  noble  passage,  which  would 
do  honour  to  any  author,  however  illustrious  : — 

"  What  does  not  fate  ?    The  tower  that  long  had  stood 
The  crushing  thunder,  and  the  warring  winds, 
Shook  by  tlie  slow,  hut  sure  destroyer,  time, 
Now  hangs  in  doubtl'ul  ruin  o'er  its  base  ; 
And  flinty  pyramids,  and  walls  of  brass 
Descend.     The  Babylonian  spires  are  sunk  ; 
Achaia,  Rome,  and  Egypt  moulder  down  ; 
Time  shakes  the  stable  tyranny  of  thrones, 
And  tottering  empires  sink  with  their  own  weight  : 
This  huge  rotundity  we  tread  grows  old. 
And  all  those  worlds  that  roll  around  the  sun. 
The  sun  himself  shall  die,  and  ancient  night 
Again  involve  the  desolate  abyss." 

Young  is  an  author  of  a  very  extraordinary  character, 
and  certainly  of  great  powers.  His  imagery  is  bold  and 
original ;  his  sentiments  expressed  with  wonderful  force 
and  eloquence  ;  and  his  versification,  although  infinitely 
inferior  to  the  exquisite  music  of  Milton,  yet  has  more  of 
real  poetical  rhythm  in  its  composition,  than  that  of  most 
of  his  contemporaries.  His  genius,  however,  is  only  seen 
to  advantage  amidst  charnel  houses  and  sepulchres. 
When  it  is  employed  on  lighter  subjects,  in  satirical  or 
humorous  delineations,  it  is  unsuccessful ;  it  seems  as  if, 
hke  the  pictures  of  the  camera  obscura,  it  could  not  be 
exhibited  but  in  an  apparatus  of  darkness.  His  muse  is 
a  mummy  ;  his  Apollo  a  sexton  ;  his  Parnassus  a  church- 
yard. He  drinks  from  the  river  Styx  instead  of  Hijjpo- 
crene,  and  mistakes  the  pale  horse  in  thf  Revelation  for 
Pegasus.  The  consequence  is,  that  as  far  as  a  very  large 
portion  of  his  volume  is  concerned,  it  may  be  very  good 
divinity,  but  it  is  not  poetry. 

Goldsmith  1  have  already  had  occasion  to  mention 
several  times  in  the  course  of  these  lectures,  as  the  various 
classes  of  English  poetry  in  which  he  has  written,  have 
come  under  our  review.  He  now  appears  before  us  in 
the  character  of  a  didactic  poet,  and  what  can  I  say  of 
him  better  than  by  repeating  the  true  and  eloquent  eulo- 
gium  in  his  epitaph  : — 

"Nullum  quod  tetigit  non  ornavll!" 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  12o 

The  "  Traveller,''''  and  the  "  Deserted  ViUage,"^  scarcely 
'claim  any  notice  from  me.  They  are  in  every  one's 
hands  ^  they  i>ve  in  every  one's  memory  ;  they  are  felt  in 
every  one's  ht-iirt.  They  are  daily  the  delight  of  millions. 
The  critic  an  '  the  commentator  are  never  asked  their 
opinion  upon  their  merits.  "  Song,"  says  Camphell,  "is 
but  the  eloquence  of  truth,"  and  of  this  eloquence  are 
the  writings  of  Goldsmith  made  up.  Eloquence  that  will 
be  listened  to  ;  truth  that  it  is  impossible  to  doubt. 

Thomson  is  the  first  of  our  descriptive  poets  ;  I  had 
almost  said,  the  first  in  the  world.  He  is  one  of  the  best 
poets,  and  the  worst  versiliers,  that  ever  existed.  To 
begin  with  the  least  pleasing  part  of  our  subject,  his  ver- 
sification, it  is  artificial  and  elaborate  ;  timid  and  pompous  ; 
deserting  simplicity,  without  attaining  dignity.  It  scorns 
the  earth,  without  being  able  to  soar  into  the  air.  In  the 
best  passages  of  his  poetry,  the  power  and  splendour  of 
his  thoughts  burst  through  the  clouds  in  which  his  versifi- 
cation shrouds  thein  ;  and,  like  the  sun,  impart  a  portion 
of  their  own  liiihtness  to  that  which  would  obscure  them. 
Strange,  that  he  who  had  such  an  eye  for  nature,  and 
had  a  mind  teeming  with  so  many  simple  and  beautiful 
images,  should  choose  language  so  artificial,  in  which  to 
describe  the  one,  and  express  the  others.  Thomson, 
•when  he  wrote  his  "  Castle  of  Indolence,'^  could  describe 
as  naturally  as  he  felt.  The  fact  seems  to  be,  that  the 
last-mentioned  poem  was  a  work  of  amusement,  and  the 
"  /S'easons"  a  work  of  labour.  Thomson's  ideas  spring 
up  so  naturally  and  unforced,  that  he  seems  to  think  him- 
self bound  to  clothe  them  in  a  cumbrous  and  elaborate 
versification,  before  he  ventures  to  exhibit  them  to  the 
■v\'orld.  He  could  not  believe  that  in  their  naked  sim- 
plicity and  beauty  they  were  fit  for  the  public  gaze.  His 
versification,  however,  is  but  the  husk  and  stalk  ;  the  fruit 
which  grows  up  with  them  is  of  a  delicious  taste  and 
flavour.  Thomson  is  the  genuine  child  of  nature.  He 
seems  equally  at  home  in  the  sunshine,  and  in  the  storm  ; 
in  the  smiling  valleys  of  Arcadia,  and  in  the  icy  wastes  of 
Nova  Zembia  ;  amidst  the  busy  hum  ol'  niankind,  and 
the  solitude  and  silence  of  deserts.  The  following  lines 
present  as  jierfect  and  well-defined  a  {)ictme  to  the  eye, 
as  ever  was  embodied  on  the  canvass  :  — 


.13.4  tECTDliES    OK 

"  Home  from  liis  niorning  task  tlic  swain  retreats.- 
His  ilock  before  liiin  steppinjr  to  the  fold, 
"While  the  full  uddcr'd  mother  lows  around 
The  cheerful  cottage,  then  expecting  food  ; 
The  food  of  innocence  and  health.     The  daw, 
The  rook,  and  magpie,  to  the  gray-grown  oaks, 
That  the  calm  village  in  their  verdant  arms, 
Sheltering,  embrace,  direct  their  lazy  flight  ; 
Where  on  the  mingling  boughs  they  sit  embowered. 
All  the  hot  noon,  till  cooler  hours  arise. 
Faint  underneath  the  household  fowls  convene  ; 
And  in  a  corner  of  the  buzzing  shade. 
The  house-dog,  with  the  vacant  greyhound,  lies 
Outstretch'd  and  sleepy.'' 

Here  the  versification  is  less  stilted  than  that  of  Thorn- 
jfeon  generally  is  ;  but  even  here  it  is  loaded  with  exple- 
tives ;  such  as  the  "  mingling  boughs,"  the  "  household 
fowls,"  the  "  vacant  grayhound,"  and  the  "  gray-grown 
oaks."  Thomson's  epithets  are  laboured,  and  encumber, 
instead  of  assisting  his  descriptions.  Shakspeare's,  on  the 
contrary,  are  artless,  and  seem  scarcely  sought  for  ;  but 
every  word  is  a  picture.  Instance  his  description  of  the 
#nartlet,  building  his  nest  outside  of  Machethh  castle  : — ^ 

"  This  guest  of  summer, 
The  temple-haunting  martlet,  doth  approve, 
By  his  loved  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here." 

Or  his  description  of  the  infant  sons  of  Edward  the  Fourth 
isleeping  in  the  tower  : 

*'■  Their  hps  were  four  red  roses  on  a  stalk, 
That  in  their  summer  beauty  kiss'd  each  other." 

Again,  the  following  description,  in  the  "  Seasons,*^  of 
that  period  of  the  year  when  the  winter  and  the  spring- 
are  contending  for  the  mastery,  is  perfectly  true  an<l 
featural : 

"  As  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirm'd, 
And  winter  oH.  at  eve  resumes  the  breeze  ; 


ENGLISH    POETRV.  125 

Chills  the  pale  morn,  and  bids  his  driving  sleets 
Deform  the  day  dehghtless  ;  so  that  scarce 
The  bittern  knows  his  time,  with  bill  ingulf'd 
To  shake  the  sounding  marsh,  or  from  the  shore 
The  plovers  when  to  scatter  o'er  the  heath, 
And  sing  their  wild  notes  to  the  listening  waste." 

But  how  are  the  beauty  and  fidelity  of  the  picture  de- 
formed by  such  harsh  is'versions  and  tumid  epithets  as 
"  day  delightless,"  and  "  bill  ingulfed." 

Cowper  has  not  Thomson's  genius,  but  he  has  much 
more  taste.  His  range  is  neither  so  wide,  nor  so  lofty, 
but,  as  far  it  extends,  it  is  peculiarly  his  own.  He  can- 
not paint  the  plague  at  Caithagena,  or  the  snow-storm, 
or  the  earthquake,  as  Thomson  has  done  ;  but  place  him 
by  the  banks  of  the  Ouse,  or  see  him  taking  his  "winter 
■walk  at  noon,"  or  accompany  him  in  his  rambles  through 
liis  fl  nver  garden,  and  where  is  the  author  who  can  com- 
pare with  him  for  a  moment  1  The  pictures  of  domestic 
life  which  he  has  painted  are  inimitable.  It  is  hard  to  say 
whether  his  sketches  of  external  nature,  or  of  indoor  life, 
are  the  best.  Cowper  does  not  attempt  the  same  variety 
of  scene  as  Thomson  ;  but  in  what  he  does  attempt,  he 
always  succeeds.  The  grander  features  of  nature  are 
beyond  his  grasp ;  mountairs  and  cataracts,  frowning 
rocks,  and  wide-spreading  seas,  are  not  subjects  for  his 
pencil  :  but  the  meadow  and  the  hay-field,  the  gurgling 
rill,  and  the  flower-crowned  porch,  he  can  place  before 
our  eyes  with  astonishing  verisimilitude.  Sometimes  too 
he  takes  a  flight  beyond  his  ordinary  reach  ;  and  his  per- 
sonification of  winter  is  powerful,  and  even  sublime  ; — 

"Oh  Winter!  ruler  of  the  inverted  year! 
Thy  scatter'd  hair,  with  sleet-like  ashes  fill'd, 
Thy  breath  congeal'd  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheek 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapt  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels, 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way." 

Cowper's  minor  poems  are  full  of  beauties ;  and  ot 
beauties  of  the  most  versatile  nature.     For  pathos  and. 


126  LECTURES   ON 

feeling,  liis  lines  "  On  his  J\[olher^s  Piclnre'^  are  posi- 
tively unrivalled.  His  "  Review  of  Schools,"  and  his  piece 
entitled  "  Conversation,"  display  an  acute  observation  of 
men  and  manners,  and  are  replete  with  the  keenest,  but 
at  the  same  tirrie,  the  most  polished  satire  ;  while  his 
*'  John  Gilpin"  is  a  masterpiece  of  quiet  and  unforced, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  strong  and  racy  humour. 

His  versification,  like  Thomson's,  is  not  his  best  quality ; 
but  its  faults  are  of  a  totally  opposite  character.  If 
Thomson  fails  from  too  much  effort,  Cow  per  fails  from 
too  little.  If  one  is  bombastic  and  turgid,  the  other  is  tame 
and  prosaic.  English  narrative  blank  verse  is  an  instru- 
ment which  few  know  how  to  touch.  It  is  like  wielding 
the  bow  of  Ulysses.  Milton,  and  Milton  only,  could  draw 
from  it  all  the  ravishing  harmony  which  it  contained. 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  l^T 


LECTURE  THE  SIXTH. 


LYRICAL    AND    MISCELLANEOUS    POETRY. 

Ancient  Minstrels,  Troubadours,  and  Ballad-Writers  : — Abun- 
dance and  Beauty  of  the  old  English  Lyrical  Poems  : — Sir 
Thomas  Wyatt  : — Beaumont  and  Fletcher: — Martin  Llew- 
ellyn : — Sir  Walter  Raleigh  : — George  Herbert : — Transla- 
tions of  the  Psalms: — Modern  Ballad-Writers: — Modern 
Odes: — Dryden,  Pope,  Collins,  Gray,  Mason,  and  the  War- 
tons  : — Conclusion. 

We  have  already  taken  a  brief  review  of  English  narra- 
tive, epic,  dramatic,  descriptive,  didactic,  pastoral,  and 
satirical  poetry.  The  subject  of  these  lectures  we  shall, 
therefore,  now  bring  to  a  close  by  directing  our  inquiries 
to  English  lyrical  and  miscellaneous  poetry. 

The  value  of  a  song  is  a  proverbial  saying  to  express 
something  utterly  worthless ;  and  yet  it  is  scarcely  too 
much  to  assert,  that  the  characters  of  nations  have  been 
moulded  and  fixed  by  their  songs  and  ballads  ;  which  have 
not  unfrequently  been  found  to  be  instruments  of  incalcu- 
lable power.  "Give  me,"  said  a  great  statesman,  "the 
making  of  the  national  ballads,  and  I  care  not  who  makes 
the  laws."  History  })resents  us  with  many  proofs  of  the 
tinth  and  wisdom  of  this  remark.  A  iiunstrel  who  accom- 
panied William  the  Conqueror  to  the  invasion  of  England, 
hy  rushing  into  the  enemy's  ranks,  chanting  the  song  of 
Hollo,  led  on  his  countrymen  to  the  victory  of  Hastings; 
the  songs  of  the  Welsh  bards  inspired  such  a  S[»irit  of 
resistance  to  the  authority  o(  the  English,  that  Edward  the 
First  caused  the  whole  fraternity  to  be  exterminated ; 
which  Hume  has  justly  styled  abaibarous,  but  not  absurd 
policy;  the  air  of  the  '*Ranz  des  Faches''  has  been  forbid- 
den to  be  played  in  the  bands  of  the  Swiss  regtments  on 
foreign  service,  because  it  brought  back   the  scenes  of 


)2b  LECTURES    ON     , 

home  to  their  vccollections,  and  inspired  them  with  a 
resistless  wish  to  return  to  their  native  eonntry  ;  and  Lord 
Wharton's  song  of"  Lillebulero,^^ — immortal  as  the  favour- 
ite of  Uncle  Toby, — is  supposed  to  have  had  no  slight 
influence  in  promoting  our  English  revolution.  To  cite 
instances  of  a  more  modern  date,  the  *^  Marsellois  Hxjmn^'' 
shook  the  Bourbons  from  their  throne  ;  and  Dibbin's 
unrivalled  naval  songs  were  instrumental  in  quelling  the 
mutiny  at  the  Nore.  Songs  and  ballads,  too,  give  us  a 
more  certain  and  I'aithful  picture  of  the  state  of  manners 
and  society  at  the  periods  in  which  they  were  written,  than 
do  the  more  bulky  and  ambitious  works  of  the  historians 
and  chroniclers  :  as  "  a  straw  thrown  up  into  the  air  will 
show  which  way  the  wind  blows,"  while  a  stone  will  return 
to  the  earth,  without  giving  us  any  such  intelligence. 

Lyrical  poetry  is  the  parent  of  all  others.  Before  men 
learned  to  construct  their  verses  into  artificial  and  elaborate 
narratives,  or  to  give  them  a  dramatic  form,  they  were 
accustomed  to  express  any  ardent  emotion,  such  as  afTec- 
tion,  exultation,  or  devotion,  by  short  metrical  composi- 
tions, which  were  usually  sung,  and  accompanied  by  some 
musical  instrument.  The  praises  of  their  gods,  the 
achievements  of  their  warriors,  and  the  beauty  of  their 
mistresses,  are  the  favourite  topics  of  the  poets  in  the  ear- 
liest and  rudest  stages  of  society.  Hence  arose  a  class  of 
men,  whose  peculiar  province  it  was  to  compose  and  sing 
verses  upon  such  subjects ;  men  who  united  the  characters 
of  poet  and  minstrel ;  who  were  treated  with  extraordinary 
respect  and  reverence,  and  who  could  frequently  number 
in  their  ranks  persons  of  high  station  and  great  power. 

The  bards  of  Druidical  time  form  the  earliest  class  of 
this  character  of  whom  we  have  any  record  in  our  island  : 
these  have  been  succeeded  by  the  Saxon  gleemen  and 
minstrels;  the  Proveni;al  troubadours,  and  finally,  by  poets 
of  a  more  lofty  and  enduring  reputation. 

The  troubadours  are  the  fathers  of  modern  literature. 
The  Provenc^al  language  in  which  they  wrote,  was  the 
general  language  of  civilized  Europe  ;  or,  at  least  of  the 
educated  classes  of  society.  At  the  period  at  which  they 
flourished,  it  was  very  generally  spoken  in  France,  Italy, 
tjie  south  of  Germany,  Flanders,  and  England.  The 
poets  of  those  days,  however,  bore  very  little  resemhance 


ENGLISH    I'OETJiV.         ,  V2^ 

to  those  secluded  and  sedentary  persons  who  now  rule  the 
world  of  literature.     They  were  warriors  and  knights, 
earls  and  barons,  princes  and  kings  ;  although  persons  of 
the  lowest  stations  in  society  were  numbered  among  them, 
and  could  claim  all  the  honours  and  privileges  which  apper- 
tained to  the  character  of  the  minstrel;  if  they  were  but 
accomplished  in  what  was  called,  la  gaie  science :  but  these 
were  also  active  and   peranibulatory  persons,  wandering 
from  city  to  city,  and  from  castle  to  castle,  singing  of  love, 
and  war,  and  glory.     Many  of  their  compositions  teem 
with  the    most   beautiful  and  original  imagery,  and    are 
full  of  expressions  of  that  Jiigh  sense  of  honour,  courtesy, 
and  devotion  to  the  fair  sex,  which  characterized  the  ages 
of  chivalry.     A  few  specimens  of  their  poetry,  as  far  as  qK 
literal  prose  version  can  be  called  a  specimen,  will  not  be 
irrelevant  to  the  subject  immediately  before  us.     Geoffrey 
Jludel,  whose  life  was  as  romantic  as  that  of  any  romance 
which  was  ever  invented,  thus  unburthens  the  feelings  of 
his  heart : — "  All  nature  sets  me  an  example  of  elegance 
and  love.    The  trees  when  renewing  their  leaves,  and  their 
fruits,  invite   me  to  adorn  myself  in  my  gayest  apparel. 
^Vlien  I  behold  the  nightingale  caressing  his  faithful  mate, 
who  returns  his  tenderness  in  every  look,  and  who  sq 
delightfully  warble  their  pys  in  unison,   I  feel  my  soui 
penetrated  with  delight ;  1  teel  my  heart  melt  with  tender 
love.     Happy  birds  !  you  are  still  at  liberty  to   express 
what  you  feel,  while  I  languish  in  silence.    The  shepherds 
anmse  themselves  with  their  pipes,  and  children  with  their 
little  labours.     I  alone  rejoice  not,  for  distant  is  the  object 
of  my  love.     Day  and  night,  a  thousand  tender  thoughts 
transport  me  to  the  blest  mansions.     When,  whisper  I, 
my  soul's  delight  !   when  shall  I  meet  you  there  ?" 

Folquet  de  Marseilles,  who  was  afterward  Bishop  ol 
Thoulouse,  in  one  of  his  poems,  also  makes  use  of  a  very 
striking  and  original  simile  : — "  I  wi.sh  only  to  express  my 
feelings,  but  to  do  so  would  be  an  unpardonable  boldness. 
How  can  my  heart  contain  so  vast  a  love  !  It  is  like  a 
^reat  tower  reflected  from  a  small  mirror  !" 

Bertrand  le  Bonn,  who  had  been  defeated  and  made 
prisoner  by  our  heroic  monarch  Cnuir-de-Lion,  then  count 
of  Poitou,  who  was  himself  a  distinguished  poet,  thu^ 
.addresses  his  con([ueror.     "  If  Count  Bichard  will  voi\c,l;'- 

.         R 


130  LECTURES    ON 

safe  me  liig  grace,  I  will  devote  myself  to  his  service,  and 
my  attachment  to  him  shall  be  as  pure  as  the  fiuest  silver. 
His  high  dignity  shoidd  cause  him  to  resemble  the  sea, 
which  set- ms  to  retain  all  she  receives  within  her  bosom, 
but  casts  it  back  on  (he  shore.  It  befits  so  great  a  baron 
to  restore  what  he  has  taken,  from  a  vassal  who  humbles 
himself  before  him." 

But  it  is  doing  the  troubadour  poets  manifest  injustice 
to  pretend  to  give  any  idea  of  their  merits  by  a  literal  prose 
version.  I  will  therefore  venture  to  attempt  a  metrical 
translation  of  two  short  extracts,  which  struck  me  as 
possessing  peculiar  beauty.  The  first  is  from  Geoffrey 
Rudel : — 

"  Once  on  my  lip,  my  bliss  to  seal, 
Thine  own  a  kiss  imprest ; 
And  ever  since  that  time  I  feel 
Love's  pangs  within  my  breast. 

Give  me  again  that  kiss  so  deai-, 

Which  my  heart's  peace  betray'd  ; 
That  kiss  which  like  Achilles'  spear, 

Can  heal  the  wound  it  made." 

The  other  is  from  Folquet  de  Marseilles  ;  and  I  should 
premise  that  love  and  mercy  were  supplicated  as  divinities 
among  the  troubadours. 

"  Love  !  thou  hast  done  me  wrong  to  wage 

Thy  war  witliin  my  heart ; 
Not  bringing  Mercy  to  assuage 

The  rankling  of  thy  dart. 
Where  Mercy  is  not,  Love  is  found 

A  tyrant  haught  and  proud  ; 
Love,  let  thy  knee  salute  the  ground, 

At  Mercy's  footstool  bow'd. 

Surely  the  greatest  of  the  great, 

The  best  among  the  good, 
May  bid  those  powers  together  mate, 

Oh  Lady!  calm  their  feud. 
That  thou  canst  blend  in  union  meek, 

Things  more  opposed  than  they, 
The  white  and  red  upon  thy  cheek, 

In  Love's  own  language  say." 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  lol 

by  degrees,  however,  the  Provcn(;al  dechned  into  a 
^ead  language  ;  the  poets  of  Europe  made  use  of  the 
tongues  of  tht'ir  own  respective  countries;  and  lyrical  and 
narrative  poe  ry  became  closely  connected.  The  old 
English  meti  ;<  al  romances  were  composed  ^vith  a  view  to 
a  musical  accompaniment ;  and  the  old  English  ballads,  for 
the  most  part,  contain  some  narration  formed  of  two  or 
three  striking  incidents.  In  the  number  and  beauty  of 
its  ancient  lyrical  reliques,  this  nation  is  said  to  be  richer 
than  all  the  rest  of  Europe  combined.  The  fine  old 
ballads  of  "  Chevy  Cfiace'"  and  "  Sir  Cauline  and  King 
Estmere,'''  abound  with  the  most  exquisite  and  original 
imagery,  and  with  touches  of  deep  and  genuine  feeling. 
Of  the  first,  Sir  Philip  vSidney,  no  inroaipetent  judge,  has 
said,  "  I  never  heard  the  old  song  of  Ptrcie  and  Douglas, 
that  I  have  found  not  my  heart  moved  more  than  with  a 
trumpet ;  and  yet  it  is  sung  but  by  some  blind  crowder, 
with  no  rougher  voice  than  ruile  style  ;  which  being  so 
evil  a|»pandled,  in  the  dust  and  cobweb  of  that  uncivil  age, 
what  would  it  work  trimmed  in  the  gor:-eous  eloquence  of 
Pindar  ]"  "  Old  Robin  Gray'"'  also  deserves  our  notice, 
if  it  were  onl^  on  account  uf  these  two  lines  :— 

'•'  My  father  argued  sair,  though  my  mither  didna  speak, 
But  slie  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break. 

There  is  also  in  "  Lady  Ann  BothicelVs  Lament,^*  a  touch 
©f  unaffected  nature  and  pathos  of  the  same  kind  : — 

"  Lie  still,  my  darling  !  sleep  awhile, 
And  when  thou  wakest,  sweetly  smile  ; 
Hut  smile  not  as  thy  father  did, 
To  cozen  maids  ! — nay,  God  forbid  !" 

The  early  part  of  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth  was 
rich  in  lyrical  poetry  ;  and  indeed,  wore  an  aspect  of 
great  promise  to  the  cause  of  literature  and  the  arts.  1 
am  afraid  that  I  shall  be  venturing  a  very  unpopular 
opinion,  when  I  say,  that  I  believe  these  propitious  ap- 
pearances were  owing  to  the  influence  of  Cardinal  Wol- 
sey  ;  for  we  lind  tlie  character  of  the  king,  and  of  the 
nation,  materially  altered  after  that  distinguished  minister 


132  LECTURES  orj 

^^as  removed  from  the  royal  councils.  Henry,  who  tlurPng- 
^Volsey's  administration  hold  the  balance  of  Europe,  be- 
came comparatively  powerless  and  insignifieaut ;  the  love 
of  poetry  and  the  arts  was  exchanged  for  controversial 
subtleties,  and  for  the  more  conelusive,  if  less  logical 
arguments,  of  the  axe,  the  iagot,  and  the  gibbet ;  and 
thus  the  budding  s[)ring-time  ol"  English  hterature,  which 
had  produced  such  poets  as  Surrey,  VVyatt,  and  Vaux, 
was  nipped  untimely  by  the  chilling  breath  of  tyranny. 
One  extract  from  the  productions  of  this  period  is  all  that 
1  can  find  room  for;  and  this  I  shall  give  not  so  much  on 
account  of  any  clain)s  to  originality,  or  genius,  which  it 
evinces,  as  lor  the  purpose  of  showing  the  strength  and 
sweetness,  which  the  authors,  even  of  that  eaily  age, 
infused  into  their  versificaton.  It  is  by  Sir  Thomas  AVyattj 
and  is  entitled  ^^  An  earnest  Suit  to  his  Alistrcss  not  to  foy. 
>  a/ce  him  ;"— 

"And  wilt  tliou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay,  say  nay,  for  shame  : 
'J'o  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame, 

And  wilt  thot  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay,  say  nay. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
That  has  loved  (hee  so  long, 
In  wealth  and  wo  among  ; 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong, 

As  for  to  leave  me  thus  •? 
Say  nay,  say  nay. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart, 
Never  for  to  depart, 
Neither  for  pain  or  smart  : 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay,  say  nay. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  tims  ? 
And  have  no  more  pity 
Of  him  who  loveth  thee  ; 
Alas  !  thy  cruelty  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  f 
Say  nay,  say  nay." 


E^'GLISU    POETftV.  18*? 

The  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  however,  to  which,  ahnost 
whatever  class  of  poetry  wc  are  discussing,  we  must  revert 
as  the  period  in  which  it  arrived  at  its  greatest  perfection, 
is  peculiarly  rich  in  lyrical  poems.  From  the  writings  of 
the  early  dran)atisls  alone,  we  may  extract  gems  "  of 
purest  ray  serene,"  whosf  brightu'  ss  will  shame  the  most 
ambitious  efforts  of  subsequent  periods,  I  have  already 
given  some  extracts  from  Ben  Jonson  ;  who  is,  perhaps, 
on  the  whole,  the  finest  lyrical  poet  iu  our  language. 
Shakspeare,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Lylye,  and  Hey- 
wood,  also  stand  out  from  among  the  ranks  of  the  drama- 
tists, as  elc2:ant  and  accomolished  Ivrists  ;  and  the  follow- 
ing  song,  from  Beaun.ont  and  Fletcher,  is  evidently  the 
foundation  on  which  Milton  built  that  noble  poetical  struc- 
ture, his  "  //  Penseroso  ;" — 

"  Hence  !  all  you  vain  delights^ 

As  short  as  are  the  nights, 

In  which  you  spend  your  folly  ; 
There  's  nought  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  men  were  wise  to  see 't, 

But  only  .Melancholy. 

Oh  !  sweetest  Melancholy  ! 

Welcome  folded  arms,  and  fixed  eyes,  ' 

A  sigh  that  piercing,  mortifies  ; 

A  look  that  fasten'd  to  the  ground, 

A  tongue  chain'd  up,  without  a  sound  ; 

Fountain-heads,  and  pathless  groves, 

Places  which  pale  Passion  loves  ; 

Moonlight  walks,  where  all  the  fowls 

Are  warmly  housed,  save  bata  and  owls  ; 

A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan. 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon  : 
Then  stretch  our  limbs  in  a  still  gloomy  valley,  '^     , 

.Nothing  's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  Melancholy." 

The  number  and  beauty  of  the  lyrical  poems  produced 
in  ll.e  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  are  such  that  I  cannot 
attempt  to  give  any  adequate  notion  of  them  by  extracts. 
'J'heir  grand  distinguishing  features  are  originality  of 
thought,  and  elegance  of  versification.  Donne,  Sydney, 
llaleigh,  Carew,  Herrick,  Crashaw,  Suckling,  Waller, 
and  others,  form  an  unrivalleil  school  of  lyrical  poetry, 
M'hifh  exi'Jted  in  this  country  fron»  the  days  of  Elizabeth 


J34  LECTUllES    ON 

to  those  of  Charles  :  and  it  is  perfectly  unaccountable, 
that,  possessing  so  many  gems  of  the  purest  poetry,  the 
public  taste  should  aft(  rward  have  sunk  into  such  a  state 
of  utter  debasement,  as  to  be  giatifieil  hy  the  sickening 
commonplaces  of  Lansdowne,  Walsh,  and  H  difax  ; — 
that  it  should  "  on  that  lair  mountain  l»  ave  to  feed,  to 
batten  on  this  moor."  I  cannot,  however,  dismiss  this 
part  of  our  subject,  without  giving  an  extract  or  two, 
which,  in  pursuance  of  my  pbin,  shall  be  taken  from  such 
authors  as  are  least  generall)  known.  The  first  is  by 
Miartin  Llewellyn : — 

"  I  felt  my  heart,  and  found  a  flame, 
That  for  relief  and  shelter  came  ; 
I  entertain'd  the  treacherous  ijnest, 
And  gave  it  welcome  in  my  breast : 
Poor  Celia  !   whiiher  wilt  thou  go, 
To  cool  in  streams,  or  freeze  in  snow  ? 
Or  gentle  Zephyrus  entreat, 
To  chill  thy  flames,  and  fan  thy  heat  ? 
Perhaps  a  taper's  fading  beams 
May  die  in  air,  or  quench  in  streams; 
But  Love  is  an  innnorta!  tire, 
Nor  can  in  air,  or  ice,  expire  ; 
Nor  will  that  Phoetiix  be  supprest, 
But  with  the  ruin  of  its  nest." 

My  second  quotation  is  from  the  writings  of  one,  whose 
achievements  and  misfortunes  have  made  him  sufficiently 
renowned  ;  but  whose  literary  productions  are  compara- 
tively unknown.  I  allude  to  that  soldier,  that  sailor,  that 
statesman,  that  patriot,  that  poet,  that  hero,  Sir  Walter 
Xlaleigh ! 

"THE  SILENT  LOVER. 

Passions  are  liken'd  best  to  floods  and  streams, 
The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep  are  dumb  ; 

So,^when  affection  yields  discourse,  it  seems 
The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they  come  : 

They  that  are  rich  in  words  must  needs  discover 

They  are  but  poor  in  that  which  makes  a  lover. 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  135 

Wrong  not,  sweet  nnistress  of  my  heart ! 

The  merit  of  true  passion, 
With  thinking  that  lie  feels  no  smart, 

That  sues  for  no  compassion. 

Since,  if  my  plaints  were  not  t'  approve 

The  conquest  of  thy  beauty  ; 
It  comes  not  from  defect  of  love, 

But  fear  t'  exceed  my  duty. 

For  knowing  that  I  sue  to  serve 

A  saint  of  such  perfection. 
As  all  desire,  but  none  deserve 

A  place  in  her  affection  ; 

I  rather  choose  to  want  relief, 

Than  venture  the  revealing  ; 
Where  glory  recommends  the  grief, 

Despair  disdains  the  healing. 

Silence  in  love  betrays  more  wo 

Tlian  words,  though  ne'er  so  witty  : 

A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  know,      ' 
May  challenge  double  pity. 

Then  wrong  not,  dearesi  to  my  heart ! 

My  love  for  secret  passion ; 
He  smarteth  most  who  hides  his  smart. 

And  sues  for  no  compassion." 

The  excitement  and  partizanship  produced  by  the  pro- 
gress of  the  reformation  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
gave  a  religious  tinge  to  many  of  the  lyrical  writings  of  that 
period,  Crashavv,  who  translated  Marino's  "  Sospetto  d' 
Jlcrode,^^  is  a  lyric  poet  of  great  sweetness  and  j)Ower  ; 
but  his  writings  were  not  very  popular,  on  account  of  the 
religious  tenets  which  he  prtjfessed  being  Roman  Catholic  ; 
and  of  his  poems  being  very  deeply  imbued  with  them. 
The  unfortunate  Robert  Southwell,  the  Jesuit,  was  also 
doomed,  not  only  to  find  his  poetry  neglected,  but  to  lay 
down  his  life  on  account  of  his  creed  ;  and  this  too,  during 
the  domination  of  that  boasted  advocate  of  liberality  and 
toleration,  Queen  Elizabeth.     His  works,  both  prose  an<l 


136  LECTUKES    OA 

poetry,  are  full  of  deep  and  original  tlioughts,  Avbicii 
iare,  in  general,  charmingly  expressed.  George  Herbert, 
brother  of  the  celebrated  Edward,  Lord  Herbert,  of  Cher- 
bury,  was  once  an  author  of  great  reputation  as  a  devo- 
tional lyrist ;  but  his  beauties  of  thought  and  diction  arc 
so  overloaded  with  far-fetched  conceits,  and  quaintnesses ; 
low,  and  vulgar,  and  even  indelicate  imagery;  and  a  per« 
tinacious  ap[)ropriation  of  Scripture  language  and  fiuure, 
in  situations  where  they  make  a  most  unseemly  exhibition, 
that  there  is  now  very  little  probability  of  his  ever  regain- 
ing the  popularity  which  he  has  lost.  That  there  was 
much,  however,  of  the  real  [)oetical  temperament  in  the 
composition  of  his  mind,  the  following  lines,  although  not 
free  from  his  characteristic  blemishes,  will  abundantly 
prove  : — 

"  Sweet  Day  !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  brit.'ht5 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky  ; 
Sweet  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die  ! 

Sweet  Rose  !  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave.. 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye  ; 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die ! 

Sweet  Spring  !  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 

A  box,  where  sweets  compacted  lie  ; 
My  music  shows  you  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die! 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  season'd  timber  never  gives. 
But  when  the  whole  world  turns  to  coal 
Then  chiefly  lives." 

Francis  Qiiarles  is  an  author  of  the  same  stamj) ;  with  a 
ilne  genius,  but  the  vilest  taste  in  the  world.  His  writings 
are  full  of  powerful  effort,  ill  directed.  His  poetry,  in  all 
its  faults  and  merits,  is  well  illustrated  by  his  engravings, 
-^rhere  is  much  of  what  the  artists  call  good  intention  in 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  137 

both,  but  never  was  good  intention  so  marred  in  the  exe- 
cution. His  poetry  is  not  more  like  Milton's,  than  his 
pictures  are  like  Ratfaelle's  ;  yet  both  are  lull  ot"  origi- 
nality and  power  :  the  mere  chippings  and  parings  of  his 
genius,  combined  with  a  little  taste  and  judgment,  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  have  lorined  either  an  artist,  or  a 
poet,  of  no  ordinary  rank. 

The  odes  and  choruses  of  Milton  are  perhaps  the  most 
perfect  lyrics  in  our  language.  The  "  Hymn  on  the  J^a- 
tivity"  beginning,  "  It  was  the  winter  wild  ;"  the  lines 
"  On  a  solemn  Music," — "  Blest  pair  of  Sirens !  pledges  of 
heaven's  joy  !*'  and  the  choruses  of  "  Sampson  Agonistesy'' 
are  altogether  matchless.  Like  all  the  writings  of  Milton, 
they  are  remarkable  for  their  union  of  the  sublimity  and 
daring  of  the  Greek  poets,  with  the  holy  fervour  and 
sanctity  of  the  scriptural  writers.  He  is,  as  it  were, 
Isaiah  and  Pindar  combined.  He  soars  on  the  pinions  of 
the  The  ban  eagle,  yet  his  lips  seem  touched  with  the  same 
coal  of  fire  from  the  altar,  as  were  those  of  the  inspired 
prophet  of  Israel. 

Of  all  authors,  ancient  or  modern,  who  have  been  sub- 
jected to  the  inflictions  of  translators,  certainly  the  royal 
psalmist,  David,  has  been  treated  with  the  greatest  indig- 
nity ;  for,  in  no  language  in  Europe,  has  justice  been 
done  to  him.  He  has  been  traduced  into  French,  over- 
turned into  Dutch,  and  done  into  English,  with  equal 
beauty  and  felicity.  In  our  own  country,  the  psalms,  like 
every  thing  else  appertaining  to  the  church,  seem  to  be 
considered  parish  property,  and  to  be  under  the  control  of 
a  select  vestry  ;  every  vestige  of  genius,  or  poetry,  in 
them,  is  therefore  most  carefully  picked  out,  lest  they 
should  interfere  with  the  popularity  ol  the  verses  of  that 
most  ancient  and  respectabli;  parochial  officer,  the  bell- 
man !  The  words  which  are  feloniously  attributed  to  the 
"  sweet  singer  of  Israel,"  might,  with  greater  probability, 
be  considered  the  authorship  of  the  parish  clerk,  who 
drawls  theme  out ;  or  of  the  charity  children,  who  lend 
their  most  "  sweet  voices"  to  grace  them  with  appropriate 
melody. 

It  is,  certainly,  most  extraordinary,  that  a  work  which 
is  worthy  of  the  highest  poetical  powers  of  any  age,  or  of 

S 


138  LECTURES    ON 

any  country,  should  hitherto  have  been  generally  aban- 
doned to  the  ignorant,  the  incapable,  and  the  presump- 
tuous. But  the  truth  is,  that  so  long  as  the  purposes  of 
public  worship  are  exclusively  kept  in  view,  and  the 
translator  is  coulined  to  the  drawling  long,  and  short 
metres,  the  strait  waistcoats  oi  verse,  which  are  now 
used,  it  will  be  impossible  to  infuse  into  an)  English  ver- 
sion, the  power  and  feeling,  the  spirit  and  em-rgy,  of  the 
originals.  It  is  obvious  that  many  of  these  psalms  are  not 
fitted  for  public  use;  and  that  the  variety  of  their  subjects 
requires  an  equal  variety  of  metre.  Some  of  them  breathe 
all  the  ardour  of  triumph  ;  some,  all  the  dejection  of  hu- 
mility ;  some  are  sweet  and  gentle  pastorals ;  others  are 
grand  and  melancholy  songs,  which  are  fit  to  be  warbled 
only  amidst  the  scenes  which  they  describe  ;  in  solitude, 
and  captivity,  amidst  danger  and  distress;  by  the  rivers  of 
Babylon,  and  among  the  tents  of  Kedar. 

One  translator  has  had  the  conscience  to  render  a  part 
of  that  fine  lyric,  the  137th  Psalm,  which  runs  thus,  "  If 
1  forget  thee,  O  Jerusalem  !  may  my  right  hand  forget 
her  cunning ;  if  I  do  not  remember  thee,  let  my  tongue 
cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth  !"  in  the  following  man- 
ner : — 

'•  If  1  forget  thee  ever, 
Then  let  me  prosper  never, 

But  let  it  cause 

My  tongue  and  jaws 
To  cling  and  cleave  together !" 

William  Slatyer  published,  in  1 642,  the  ^^J^ongs  of  iiion, 
or  certain  Pslams  of  David,  set  to  strange  Tunes,  and  ren- 
dered into  a  strange  Tongue."  Oi  the  tunes,  1  can  say 
nothing;  but  the  tongue  is  strange  enough.  For  instance, 
a  part  of  the  6th  and  7th  verses  of  the  52d  Psalm, — "The 
righteous  also  shall  see,  and  fear,  and  shall  laugh  at  him  : 
Lo  !  this  is  the  man  that  made  not  God  his  strength;  but 
trusted  in  the  abundance  of  his  riches !''  is  thus  versified: — 

"  The  rigiitcous  shall  his  sorrow  scan, 
And  laugh  at  liim,  and  say,  behold  ! 
What  has  become  of  tliis  here  man, 
That  on  his  riches  was  so  bold  I"' 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  139 

Archbishop  Parker,  in  the  year  1564,  printed  a  version 
of  the  entire  book  of  Psalms,  for  private  circulation,  which 
was  never  published  ;  but  a  copy  which  has  fallen  into 
my  hands,  does  not  say  much  for  the  most  reverend  pre- 
late's poetical  talents.  His  version  of  the  1st  verse  of  the 
126th  Psalm  will  suffice  as  a  specimen  of  the  entire  vo- 
lume. The  prose  translation  is  as  follows  : — "  They  that 
trust  in  the  Lord  shall  be  as  Mount  Zion,  which  cannot 
be  removed,  but  abideth  for  ever  :"  which  the  Archbishop 
versifies  thus : — 

••  Who  sticketh  to  God  in  stable  trust, 
As  Sion  mount  he  stands  full  just ; 
Which  moveth  no  whit,  nor  yet  can  reel, 
But  standeth  for  ever  as  stiff  as  steel." 

Other  parts  of  the  Scriptures  have  scarcely  suflered  less 
at  the  hands  of  versifiers  than  the  Psalms  ;  for,  in  the 
reign  of  Edward  the  Sixth,  Dr.  Christopher  Tye  turned 
the  whole  "  ,^cts  of  the  Apostles'"  into  rhyme.  His  metre 
is  something  like  that  of  Mr.  Moore's  song  of  '""Fly  from 
the  world,  O  Bessy,  to  me  !"  and  the  reverend  doctor 
begins  his  task  thus  : — 


'»' 


•'■■  In  the  former  Epistle  to  thee, 
Dear  friend  Theophilus, 
I  have  written  the  veritie 
Of  the  Lord  Christ  Jesus  !" 

Such,  as  Lord  Byron  truly  said,  arc  some  of  the  authors, 
who, — 

"  Break  into  verse  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke, 
Or  boldly  pilfer  from  the  Pentateuch  ; 
And,  undisturb'd  by  conscientious  qualms, 
Pervert  the  Propiiets,  and  purloin  the  Psalms  !*' 

One  of  the  earliest  complete  versions  of  the  Psalms, 
and,  perhaps,  with  all  its  faults, — for,  alas  !  we  have  but 
a  choice  of  evils, — one  of  the  best,  is  that  of  Sternhold 
and  Hofikins.  It  is  by  far  the  most  faithful  version  ;  and 
although  in  the  effort  to  be  scrupulously  literal,  the  authors 
have  so  often  fallen  into  absurdity,  and  bathos,  yet  there 


140  LECTURF.S    ON 

are  a  few  Psalms  which  are  rendered  into  English  with 
real  poetical  beauty,  and  feeling.  Those  which  have  the 
signature  N  affix-  il  to  them,  are  l>y  far  the  best.  They 
are  the  production  of  Thomas  Norton,  who  was,  jointly 
with  Lord  Buckhurst,  author  of  the  old  play  of  "  Gorhu- 
duc,^^  which  wr  have  had  occasion  to  mention  several  times 
in  the  course  of  these  Lectures,  as  the  first  regular  Eng- 
lish tragedy.  The  version  of  Tate  and  Brady  is  really 
beneath  our  notice.  All  the  absurdities  of  Sternhold  and 
his  coadjutors,  are  preferable  to  this  dull,  sleepy,  prosaic 
transmutation  of  some  of  the  most  magnificent  poems  in 
the  world.  That  of  Dr.  Watts,  however  respectable,  is 
not,  and  does  not  affect  to  be,  a  translation.  It  is  a  com- 
mentary, or  an  exposition  of  the  ailthor's  own  views  and 
fancies ;  and,  however  acceptable  to  those  who  coincide 
in  his  opinions,  is  worse  than  nothing,  as  a  faithful  and  cor- 
rect version  of  the  Psalms.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  genius 
of  the  two  languages,  Hebrew  and  English,  is  so  adverse, 
that  it  is  not  likely  that  any  metrical  imitation  can  give  an 
adequate  idea  of  the  original.  The  fine  prose  version  of 
the  translators  of  the  Bible,  is  certainly  infinitely  more 
poetical  than  any  attempt  which  has  yet  been  made  at 
versification. 

Lyrical  poetry,  like  almost  all  other  poetry,  except  the 
comic  drama,  seems  to  have  made  a  dead  stop  at  the 
restoration.  The  love  songs,  pastoral  songs,  sentimental 
songs,  loyal  songs,  and  devotional  songs,  which  were  then 
produced,  now  call  upon  us  for  no  other  expression  of 
our  sentitnents  and  opinions,  but  that  of  peace  be  with 
their  ashes  !  The  stream  from  which  those  poets  drank 
was  Lethe,  and  not  Helicon  ;  a  wreath  of  poppy  and 
nightshade,  instead  of  laurel  and  bays,  has  now  settled 
quietly  on  their  brows ;  and  the  critical  resurrectionist 
who  would  raise  them  from  the  oblivious  grave  in  which 
they  are  so  peacefully  inurned,  would  deserve  a  sentence 
of  outlawry  in  all  the  courts  of  Parnassus.  Dryden  is  a 
solitary,  but  a  magnificent,  exception.  His  two  splendid 
odes  on  St.  Cecilia's  day  will  last  as  long  as  the  language 
in  which  they  are  written.  The  second,  entitled  "  Mex- 
ander^s  Fcast,^^  is  unquestionably  the  finest  ode  in  our 
language.  Pope's  on  the  same  subject  sinks  infinitely  in 
the  comparison.     It  is  certainly  not  without  merit ;  but 


ENGLISH    POETRY.  141 

Pope's  pinions,  strong  and  vigorous  as  they  were,  were  not 
peculiarly  adapted  for  Pindaric  flights.  Rowe,  who  has 
shown  his  taste,  if  not  his  hoiusty,  in  dirt-cting  his  atten- 
tion to  our  old  Eiiglsi)  writers,  has  thus  truly  and  ener- 
getically characterised  the  authors  of  the  ancient  ballads: — 

"  Those  venerable  ancient  Song  enditers, 
Soar'd  many  a  pitch  beyond  our  modern  writers ; 
With  rough,  majestic  strength  they  touch'd  the  heart, 
And  truth  and  nature  made  amends  for  art." 

His  own  poems  are  very  pleasing  imitations  of  the 
ancient  lyrists,  and  may  be  said  to  have  given  rise  to  the 
school  of  modern  ballad  writers  ;  in  which  may  be  num- 
bered Tiek!  11, — whose  fine  and  feehng  "  Elegy  on  the 
death  of  Mdison  "  is  very  superior  to  the  general  tone  of 
Enslish  poetry  at  that  period  ; — Mallet,  Mickle,  Glover, 
— of  whose  ballcid  of  "  Hosier's  Ghost,"  Sheridan  declared 
he  would  rather  be  the  author  than  of  the  Annals  of  Taci- 
tus,— Gay,  Percy,  and  Gddsmith.  From  such  well- 
known  works  as  "  Colin  and  Lucy."  "  William  and  Mav' 
garet,"  Edwin  and  Emma,'"'  "  Black- Eyed  Susan"  the 
"  Friar  of  Orders  Grey"  and  "  Edwin  and  Sngelina"  it 
would  be  idle  for  me  to  adduce  any  extracts.  They  form 
a  very  agreeable  variety  in  our  literature,  and  combine 
much  of  the  native  beauty  and  feeling  of  the  ancient  bal- 
lad, with  the  more  polished  versification  of  modern  times. 

I  cannot,  however,  close  this  part  of  my  subject  with- 
out observing  that  there  are  several  highly  gifted  ballad- 
writers  now  living ;  especially  Mr.  Coleridge,  whose 
"  Genevieve"  and  the  "  Ancient  Mariner,^''  are  two  of  the 
most  magnificent  productions  in  our  language. 

Gray  for  a  long  time  held  undivided  empire  in  the  world 
of  English  lyrical  poetry.     Mason  said  of  him  : — 

"  No  more  the  Grecian  muse  unrivall'd  reigns, 
To  Britam  let  the  nations  homage  pay  ; 
She  boasts  a  Homer's  fire  in  Milton's  strains, 
A  Pindar's  rapture  in  the  lyre  of  Gray  !" 

and  the  public  eagerly  echoed  the  sentiment.  Milton  still 
continues  in  undisputed  possession  of  the  epic  supremacy, 


142  LECTURES    ON 

but  the  lyrical  crown  of  Gray  was  swept  away  at  one  fell 
swoop  by  the  ruthless  arm  of  Dr.  Johnson.  That  the 
doctor's  celebrated  critique  was  unduly  severe,  must  be 
admitted  ;  but  the  stern  censor  had  truth  on  his  side,  never- 
theless. There  is  more  of  art  than  nature  in  Gray ; 
more  of  recollection  than  invention  ;  more  of  acquire- 
ment than  genius.  If  I  may  use  a  colloquial  illustration, 
I  should  say,  that  the  marks  of  the  tools  are  too  evident 
on  all  that  he  does.  I  do  not  object  to  effort  and  labour 
being  exercised  on  that  which  is  intended  for  the  public 
eye  ;  but  the  highest  effort,  and  the  most  successful  labour, 
are  those  which  produce  the  effects  without  exhibiting  the 
means.  Who  can  doubt  but  that  the  works  of  Milton 
were  the  result  of  long,  and  painful,  and  elaborate  la- 
bour ;  but  the  only  evidence  of  that  labour  is  the  perfec- 
tion to  which  they  are  wrought.  In  Milton  we  see  the 
poet ;  in  Gray,  the  verse  constructor.  In  Milton  we  see 
the  stately  edifice  reared  ;  in  Gray,  the  materials  brought 
together  for  its  erection.  One  shows  us  the  palette,  and 
the  canvass,  and  the  brush  ;  the  other  shows  us  the  pic- 
ture ;  the  production  of  the  master  mind,  without  whose 
informing  genius,  the  palette,  and  the  canvass,  and  the 
brush,  are  but  idle  and  worthless  toys. 

Collins  is,  next  to  Jonson,  Milton,  and  Dryden,  the 
finest  lyrical  poet  which  England  has  produced.  Ele- 
gance, delicacy,  refinement,  pathos,  sublimity,  all  are  his. 
Had  health  of  body,  and  sanity  of  mind  been  preserved  to 
him,  I  know  scarcely  any  English  poet  by  whom  he  would 
have  been  surpassed.  But.  as  an  author,  whom  I  have 
not  yet  named  in  these  lectures,  but  for  whom,  with  all 
his  faults,  I  take  this  opportunity  of  testifying  my  admira- 
tion, Churchill,  has  said, — 

"  By  curious  art  the  brain  too  finely  wrought. 
Preys  on  itself,  and  is  destroyed  by  thought." 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Collins ;  the  most  accomplished 
scholar,  and  the  most  original  poet  of  his  age.  His  mis- 
fortunes, howevei,  survived  him  ;  for  his  epitaph  was 
written  by  Hayley,  who  bore  about  as  much  resemblance 
to  him,  "  as  I  to  Hercules." 

Mason,  and  the  Wartons,  are  the  latest  lyrical  poets. 


ENtiLlSU    POETRY.  143 

whom  it  will  be  consistent  with  my  plan  to  mention.  The 
first  was  certainly  a  man  of  considerable  talent.  His 
"  Elfrida"  and  "  Caractacus,''*  notwithstanding  the  tram' 
mels  in  which  he  voluntarily  chose  to  involve  liimselt,  show 
much  dramatic  power,  and  the  choruses  in  the  last,  parti- 
cularly that  beginning  "  Hark  !  heard  ye  not  yon  lo.  tstep 
dread  ?"  venture  almost  on  the  pathless  regions  of  sub- 
limity. The  Wartons,  particular!)  Thomas  Warton,  were 
men  of  cultivated  minds,  and  refined  taste,  but  to  original 
genius  they  had  no  pretensions. 

And  now,  "  my  task  is  done,  my  labour  is  complete.'' 
For  the  attention  which  I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to 
command,  I  am  indebted  to  the  nature  of  the  subject  on 
which  I  have  been  speaking.  The  situations  of  the  painter 
and  the  critic  are  singularly  contrasted.  In  the  one 
instance,  the  canvass  derives  all  its  importance  from  the 
artist ;  in  the  other,  the  artist  derives  all  his  importance 
fronj  the  canvass.  The  canvass  on  which  I  have  been  em- 
ployed, has  been  the  merits  of  the  poets  of  England ;  of 
those  illustrious  men  who,  more  than  her  monarchs,  her 
statesmen,  or  her  warriors, — great  as  they  confessedly 
have  been, — will  transmit  her  fame  to  the  most  distant 
climes,  and  the  remotest  generations.  The  works  of 
man's  hand  often  perish  before  that  hand  has  mouldered 
in  the  dust ;  but  the  vast  productions  of  his  mind  are  im- 
mortal as  that  mind  itself.  Even  now  we  see  how  far 
the  genius  of  England  has  extended  beyond  her  territorial 
limits.  Language  is  the  type  of  ideas,  and  the  medium 
by  which  they  are  expressed.  Louis  the  Fourteenth 
boasted,  that  he  had  made  French  the  language  of  Europe; 
but,  when  we  remember,  that  English  is  not  only  the  lan- 
guage of  these  realms,  and  their  dependencies  in  the  four 
quarters  of  the  world  ;  but  also  of  another  mighty  empire 
beyond  the  wide  Atlantic;  and  of  the  hundred  realms  of 
Hindoostan  ;  and  of  that  insular  continent,  which  may  be 
called  the  fifth  division  of  the  globe  ;  and,  moreover,  that, 
for  the  purj)oses  of  commerce,  or  of  literature,  or  by 
means  of  religious  missionaries,  it  has  been,  more  or  less, 
introduced  into  almost  every  realm,  and  state,  and  terri- 
tory, on  the  face  of  the  earth,  wc  may  then  indeed,  venture 
to  call  it  the  language  of  the  world  !  This  language  is 
that  mighty  engine  which  our  })oets  have  subdued  to  them- 


144        LECTURES  ON  ENGLISH  POETRY. 

selves ;  and  on  which  they  have  stamped  the  impress 
of  their  own  unrividled  genius:  this  is  that  flood  which 
shall  spread  ovei-  the  whole  world  ;  and  when  Ui<  dynas- 
ties of  the  present  period,  and  the  "cloutl-capt  tiiwcrs, 
and  the  georgeous  palaces,"  and  the  political  ins  itutions, 
and  the  customs,  and  modes,  and  manners,  which  now 
prevail,  shall  sink  beneath  it,  like  the  citi(  s  and  mountains 
of  the  antediluvian  world  ;  thtr-  genius  ol  England,  like  the 
ark  of  old,  shall  float  proudly  and  secuely  on  its  bosom, 
and  survive  to  delight  new  eras,  and  form  the  taste  and 
manners  of  nations  yet  unborn. 


END    OP    THE    LECTURES. 


'■^ 


rAIiES,   POEMS,  Ace. 


PKINTED    FKOJI    THE    ORIGINAL    MANUSCRIITS. 


T 


Th^  earth  o'  the  grave  hatli  stopt  his  iieanng,  Sir  ^ 
And  praise  and  blame  are  now  alike  to  him : 
Yet,  though  his  ear  be  dull,  and  his  heart  cold, 
And  all  (kme's  aspirations  quench'd  in  deaths 
Still  let  these  reliques  bear  a  charmed  life. 
And  speak,  though  he  be  silent. 

Old  Play. 


THE    OARTEll, 

A    ROMANCE    OF   ENGLISH    HISTORY, 


"  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense." 


England  resumed  her  ascendancy  over  Scotland  soon 
after  Edward  the  Third  had  commenced  that  brilUant  reign 
which  was  destined  to  attract  the  eyes  of  all  Europe 
towards  him.  Nature  and  fortune  seemed  to  have  con- 
curred in  distinguishing  this  prince  from  all  other  mo- 
narchs.  He  was  very  tail,  but  well  shaped  ;  and  of  so 
noble  and  majestic  an  aspect,  that  his  very  looks  com- 
manded esteem  and  veneration.  His  conversation  was 
easy,  and  always  accompanied  with  gravity  and  discre- 
tion. He  was  affable  and  obliging,  benevolent  and  con- 
descending; and  although  the  most  renowned  prince, 
warrior,  and  statesman,  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  his 
manners  and  conduct  were  courteous,  unaffected,  and  even 
humble.  His  heart,  filled  with  visions  of  glory,  was  as 
yet  ignorant  of  a  passion  with  which  few  men  know  how 
to  combat ;  and  which  is  equally  the  source  of  the  greater 
part  of  all  the  virtues  and  vices  of  humanity  :  young  Ed- 
ward was  unacquainted  with  love.  He  only  aspired  to 
resume  those  conquests,  which  had  escaped  from  the 
feeble  grasp  of  his  unhappy  father.  He  burned  with  the 
desire  of  subjecting  a  neighbouring  kingdom,  the  conquest 
of  which  had  ever  been  a  favourite  project  of  England. 
Robert  Bruce  was  in  his  grave ;  and  his  successor, 
although  he  inherited  his  courage,  did  but  hasten  the 
destruction  of  the  Scottish  monarchy. 

The  Enghsh  monarch  was  served  by  men  who  were 
worthy  of  their  master.     William  Montacute  had  fought 


148  ORIGINAL 

with  distinction  and  success,  against  the  French  and  Scots, 
and  raised  by  the  king  to  the  rank  of  Earl  of  Salisbury, 
he  desired  nothing  but  the  continuance  of  his  sovereign's 
favour  ;  which  Edward  confirmed,  by  engaging  the  Baron 
de  Grandison,  one  of  his  ministers,  to  give  his  eldest 
daughter  to  him  in  marriage. 

Katherine  de  Grandison  had  not  yet  appeared  at  court, 
but  lived  in  seclusion  and  solitude  at  her  father's  castle  in 
Gloucestershire.  To  a  tall  and  stately  form,  and  a  ma- 
jestic gait,  she  added  the  most  sylph-like  grace,  and  light- 
ness of  figure.  Her  features  were  of  that  classical  sym- 
metry, and  faultless  beauty,  which  we  so  often  see  in  the 
Greek  statues,  and  sigh  over  as  if  they  were  only  the 
dreams  of  the  inspired.  Her  face  was  exquisitely  fair  ; 
her  eyes  of  an  intense  blue  ;  and  her  voice  surpassingly 
rich,  powerful,  and  melodious.  The  accomplishments, 
both  mental  and  acquired,  with  which  she  was  endowed, 
were  of  as  high  an  order  as  those  of  her  person  ;  and  to 
both,  she  united  a  sweetness  and  gentleness  of  disposition, 
which  made  her  the  idol  of  all  who  were  acquainted 
with  her. 

Her  father,  the  Lord  de  Grandison,  was  of  a  lofty  and 
imperious  character.  Neither  very  mild,  or,  what  has 
been  in  modern  times  called  amiable,  he  had  a  stern  and 
inflexible  spirit  of  justice  and  probity.  Incapable  of 
sycophancy,  although  he  resided  at  court,  and  adoring  his 
sovereign,  without  being  able  to  degrade  himself  to  the 
rank  of  a  flatterer,  he  would  gladly  have  sacrificed  his  life 
for  the  king,  but  his  honour  was  dearer  to  him  even  than 
Edward.  Next  to  the  monarch  and  the  state,  the  object 
to  which  he  was  most  attached  was  his  daughter  ;  and  he 
lost  no  time  in  acquainting  Katharine  with  the  wishes  of 
bis  master,  who  demanded  her  hand  for  the  Earl  of  Salis- 
bury. The  father  did  not  observe  the  daughter's  emotion, 
but  retired,  convinced  that  he  should  be  obeyed,  and  that 
she  knew  no  other  law  than  her  parent's  will.  He  had, 
however,  not  long  quitted  the  apartment  before  her 
younger  sister  Alice  entered  it,  and  found  her  bathed  in 
tears.  "  Sweet  sister,"  said  Alice,  "  what  mean  these 
tears "?" 

"  Alas  !"  returned  the  lady  Katharine,  "  1  am  no  longer 
to  be  mistress  of  myself.     Thy  love  and  my  father's  pro- 


TALES,  POEMS,  ETC.  l4Ji 

tection,  were  all  I  wished  to  form  my  happiness ;  and  1 
am  now  about  to  pass  under  the  yoke  of  a  husband, 
whom  I  have  never  seen,  nor  ever  wish  to  see." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Alice  endeavoured  to  impress  upon 
her  sister's  mind  the  advantages  which  would  attend  her 
union  witn  the  king's  favourite.  "  It  is  true,"  she  rephed, 
"  that  the  Earl  of  Salisbury  stands  high  in  the  favour  of 
the  greatest  monarch  in  Europe.  But  hast  thou  ever 
seen  the  king,  Alice  1  Is  he  not  worthy  of  the  homage 
of  all  mankind  .'  Lives  there  any  one  who  can  so  irre- 
sistibly command  our  resjiect,  our  veneration,  our  love  ? 
I  beheld  him  but  once,  at  an  entertainment  to  which  my 
father  accompanied  me  :  but  one  glance  was  sufficient ! 
Oh  !  how  happy  will  that  princess  be  who  calls  him 
husband !" 

At  these  words  the  young  lady  paused,  and  blushed  ; 
yet,  notwithstanding  such  very  unpromising  symptoms,  the 
day  for  the  nuptials  was  immediately  fixed  ;  as  the  old 
lord  never  dreamed  oi  asking  his  daughter  if  his  own,  and 
the  king's  choice  were  agreeable  to  her.  The  Abbey  of 
Westminster  was  chosen  for  the  celebration  ;  the  primate 
performed  the  ceremony  ;  the  king  gave  away  the  bride  ; 
and  Katharine,  accompanied  by  her  husband  and  her 
sister,  proceeded  to  spend  the  honeymoon  at  the  earl's 
castle  of  Wark,  in  Northumberland.  His  lordship  had 
not,  however,  many  weeks  enjoyed  the  society  of  his 
beautiful  wife,  before  he  was  summoned  to  attend  the 
Earl  of  Suffolk  on  a  warlike  expedition  to  Flander&^on 
which  occasion  his  usual  good  fortune  for  the  first  time 
forsook  him.  Both  the  earls  were  defeated  in  the  first 
battle  in  which  they  engaged  ;  and  were  sent  prisoners 
to  the  court  of  France,  until  they  could  be  either  ran- 
somed, or  exchanged. 

This  piece  of  intelligence  was  communicated  to  the 
lady  Katharine,  at  the  same  time  with  another,  by  which 
she  learned  that  King  Edward  had  been  soleinnly  betrothed 
to  the  lady  Pliili[)pa  of  Hainatilt.  The  treaty  for  this 
marriage  gave  general  and  unmixed  pleasure  to  all  his 
subjects  ;  the  Count  of  Hainault,  the  lady's  father,  being 
one  of  the  most  powerful  allifs  of  England  on  the  conti- 
nent, who  had  been  mainly  instrumental  in  rescuing  it  from 
the  tvrannv  of  Mortimer,  Earl  of  March,   and  the  old 


150  ORIGINAJ, 

Queen  Isabella,  and  thus  securing  the  crown  tor  Edward 
the  Third.  The  Lord  de  Grandison,  in  particular,  was 
delii^hted  b}'  the  prospect  of  a  union  between  the  houses 
of  England  and  llainault ;  but  no  sooner  was  this  news 
communicated  to  the  Countess  of  Salisbury,  than  she  was 
overwhelmed  with  the  most  poignant  sorrow.  Whether 
the  earl's  captivity,  or  the  king's  marriage,  had  the  great- 
est share  in  causing  it,  we  must  leave  our  fair  readers  to 
determine. 

"  Why,  my  sweet  Katharine,"  said  Alice,  "  why  do 
you  take  the  earl's  captivity  so  much  to  heart  ?  the  court 
of  France  must  be  the  most  agreeable  prison  in  the  world. 
There  he  will  find  every  thing  to  solace  him  in  his  misfor- 
tunes, and  enable  him  to  sustain  his  separation  from  you." 

"  Let  him  forget  me  ;  let  him  cease  to  love  me ;  'tis  no 
matter  !"  sighed  the  countess. 

"  You  deceive  me,  K.itharine,"  said  Alice  ;  "  you  con- 
ceal something  from  me  ;  for  it  is  impossible  that  the 
capture  which  has  placed  your  lord  in  the  hands  of  gene- 
rous and  magnanimous  foes,  can  be  the  occasion  of  so 
deep  a  grief  as  youis.' 

"  True,  true,  my  sweet  Alice,"  said  the  countess,  throw- 
ing herself  in  her  sister's  anus  ;  "  1  am  the  most  wretched 
of  women  ;   I  love ^" 

«  The  Earl  !"  said  Alice. 

"  The  King  !"  said  Katharine  ;  hiding  her  face  in  her 
sister's  bosom. 

"  Ha  !"  said  the  latter,  "  what  is't  I  hear  ?  I  am  your 
friend,  your  sister,  Kntharine,  and  would  fain  administer 
to  your  peace ;  but  whither  will  this  fatal  passion  lead 
you  ?" 

"  To  death,  sweet  Alice  !  to  death  !  or,  at  least  to  a 
life  made  miserable  by  the  consciousness  of  nursing  in  my 
heart  a  sentiment  to  which  honour  and  virtue  are  alike 
opposed.  And  I  have  a  rival,  Alice  !  Oh  !  save  me,  save 
me  from  myself!  Speak  to  me  of  Salisbury,  of  my  hus- 
band !  of  his  renown,  his  truth,  his  valour  !  and  1  will 
forget  this  king,  whose  conquests  cannot  be  bounded  by 
France  and  Scotland,  but  must  include  even  the  affections 
of  his  subjects." 

The  heart  of  Katharine  was  tender  and  susceptible,  but 
boJd  and  firm  ;  and  in  the  society  of  her  sister,  and  in  the 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC.  ISl 

active  discharge  of  the  various  duties  devolving  upon  her 
elevated  rank,  she  endeavoured  to  repress  that  fatal  pas- 
sion, which  the  recent  intelligence  had  strengthened  to  a 
height,  almost  bordering  on  insanity. 

In  the  mean  time  King  Edward  openly  declared  war 
against  the  Scots  ;  who,  instead  of  waiting  to  be  attacked, 
resolved  to  become  themselves  the  assailants,  and  with  a 
large  army,  invaded  England  ;  ravaged  the  northern 
counties  ;  attacked  Newcastle  ;  took  and  burned  the  city 
of  Durham  ;  and  finally  laid  siege  to  Wark  Castle,  which 
was  left  to  the  defence  of  the  Countess  of  Salisbury,  Sir 
William  Montacute,  the  son  of  her  husband's  sister,  and 
a  very  slender  garrison.  This  heroic  lady,  however,  by 
her  beauty  and  firmness,  inspired  all  with  courage,  and 
devotion  to  her  cause  ;  though  the  assault  of  the  enemy 
was  too  fierce  and  unremitting  for  them  to  hope  long  to 
defend  the  castle,  without  assistance  from  King  Edward  ; 
■which  Sir  William  Montacute  volunteered  to  obtain.  "  I 
know  your  loyalty  and  heartiness,  as  well  as  your  affec- 
tion for  the  lady  of  this  house,"  said  the  gallant  knight  to 
the  beleagured  garrison  ;  "  and  so,  out  of  my  love  for  her, 
and  for  you,  1  will  risk  my  life  in  endeavouring  to  make 
the  king  acquamted  with  our  situation  ;  when  I  doubt  not 
to  be  able  to  bring  back  with  me  such  succour  as  will 
effectually  relieve  us.*" 

This  speech  cheered  both  the  countess  and  her  defend- 
ers ;  and  at  midnight  Sir  William  left  the  fortress,  happily 
unobserved  by  the  Scots.  It  was  so  pitiless  a  storm,  that 
he  passed  through  their  army  without  being  noticed  ;  until 
about  daybreak,  when  he  met  two  Scotsmen,  half  a 
league  from  their  camp,  driving  thither  some  oxen.  These 
men  Sir  William  attacked,  and  wounded  very  severely  ; 
killed  the  cattle  that  they  might  not  carry  them  to  their 
army  ;  and  then  said  to  them,  "  Go  and  tell  your  leader, 
that  William  Montacute  has  passed  through  his  troops, 
and  is  gone  to  seek  succour  from  the  king  of  England, 
who  is  now  at  Berwick  ;"  which  intelligence  being 
speedily  communicated  to  the  king  of  Scotland,  he  lost 
no  time  in  raising  the  siege,  and  retreating  towards  the 
frontier. 

Within  a  very  few  hours,  King  Edward  arrived  to  the 
relief  of  the  garrison,  and  proceeded  to  pay  his  respectt? 


lol^  OHIUINAI. 

to  the  Countess  ;  who  went  to  meet  him  at  the  Uastle- 
gates,  and  there  gave  him  her  thanks  for  his  assistance. 
They  entered  the  Castle  hand  in  hand  ;  and  the  king  kept 
his  eyes  so  continually  upon  her,  that  the  gentle  dame 
was  quite  abashed  :  after  which  he  retired  to  a  window, 
where  he  fell  into  a  profound  reverie  ;  and,  as  Proissart 
tells  us,  upon  the  Countess  inquiring  the  subject  of  his 
thoughts,  and  whether  it  was  public  business  on  which  he 
mused,  the  king  replied,  "  Other  affairs,  Lady,  touch  my 
heart  more  nearly  ;  for  in  truth,  your  perfections  have  so 
surprised  and  atfected  me,  that  my  happiness  depends  on 
my  meeting  from  you  a  return  to  that  love  with  which  my 
bosom  burns,  and  which  no  refusal  can  extinguish." 

"  Sire,''  replied  the  Countess,  "  do  not  amuse  yourself 
by  laughing  at  me ;  for  I  cannot  beheve,  that  you  mean 
what  you  have  just  said;  oi;^  that  so  noble  and  gallant 
a  Prince  would  think  of  dishonouring  me,  or  my  husband, 
who  now  is  in  prison  on  your  account." 

The  lady  then  quitted  the  king ;  who,  after  passing  the 
whole  of  that  day,  and  a  restless  and  sleepless  night,  at  the 
Castle  ;  at  dawn  the  next  morning  departed  in  chase  of 
the  Scots.  Upon  taking  leave  of  the  Countess,  he  said, 
"  dearest  lady,  God  preserve  you  !  Think  well  of  what 
I  have  said,  and  give  me  a  kinder  answer,"  Her  reply  to 
which  solicitation  was,  however,  similar  to  all  the  former, 
though  Edward  would  have  been  amply  revenged  for  the 
rejection  of  his  suit,  had  he  possessed  the  keen  eyes  of 
Alice  de  Grandison ;  for  to  their  piercing  scrutiny,  her 
sister's  heart,  with  all  the  storm  of  passions  by  which  it 
was  agitated,  was  entirely  laid  open.  "  Alice,"  she  said, 
«'  it  is  too  true ;  I  do  not  love  alone !  Edward  returns 
my  fatal  passion.  But  my  mind  is  fixed.  1  will  behold 
him  no  more.     Would  to  heaven  that  my  husband  were 

here!" 

As  she  uttered  these  words  the  Countess  sunk  into  the 
arms  of  Alice  ;  and  almost  at  that  moment,  she  received 
a  letter  from  the  Earl.  "  Heaven  be  praised  !"  said  she, 
"  Salisbury  is  on  his  return  ;  and  his  arrival  will  alike  pre- 
vent the  king,  and  me,  from  nursing  a  sentiment  which 
ought  to  be  stifled  in  its  birth."  Upon  the  old  Lord  de 
Grandison's  arrival  on  a  visit  to  his  daughter,  he  failed  not 
to  observe  the  profound  sorrow  in  which  she  was  plunged ; 


I 


TALES,  POEMS,  ETC."  153 

**  but  rejoice,  Katharine!"  said  he,  "your  husband  will 
soon  be  here.  By  an  arrangement  between  King  Edward 
and  the  courts  of  France  and  Scotland,  he  has  been  ex- 
changed for  the  Earl  of  Moray.  Check,  then,  this  immo- 
derate grief;  Salisbury  has  sutTered  defeat,  but  it  is  with- 
out disgiace." 

The  Countess  felt  all  the  pangs  of  conscious  guilt,  when 
she  heard  her  father  attribute  her  grief  to  the  absence  of 
her  husband.  "  Oh,  my  father  !"  she  said,  when  left  to 
the  companionship  of  her  own  painful  thoughts,  "  even 
thee  too,  do  I  deceive  !  I  am  the  betrayer  of  all  who 
surround  me;  and  dare  I  meet  the  gaze  of  Salisbury'?  Alas! 
my  misfortune  and  my  crime  are  traced  in  indelible  cha- 
racters upon  my  brow.'' 

Edward  on  his  return  to  his  capital,  thoisgh  surrounded 
by  the  most  dazzling  splendour,  and  tiie  most  enticing 
pleasures,  could  not  chase  from  his  mine'  the  image  of  the 
Countess  ;  and,  unable  any  longer  to  bear  her  absence, 
he  wrote  to  the  Lord  de  Grandison,  commanding  him  to 
bring  his  daughter  to  court,  for  the  purpose  of  awaiting 
the  speedy  arrival  of  her  husband.  "  My  father,"  said 
she,  as  soon  as  the  old  Lord  had  communicated  to  her  the 
the  royal  command,  "  will  not  the  Earl  come  hither  to 
me  ]" 

"Katharine!"  answered  De  Grandison,  "the  slight- 
est wishes  of  the  king  it  is  our  imperative  duty  to  obey." 

"  My  lord,  if  you  knew — I  am  a  stranger  to  tiie  capital ; 
does  it  not  abound  with  dangers  ?    Is  there  not —  ?" 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  child ;  you  have  wisdom,  education, 
and  virtuous  example  to  protect  you.  Once  more,  your 
father  and  your  king  command  you ;  and  you  must  ac- 
company me.'' 

De  Grandison  then  made  the  necessary  preparations 
for  his  own  return  to  the  metropolis  ;  and  the  Countess, 
under  the  pretext  of  indisposition,  was  able  to  delay  her 
own  journey  but  for  a  short  period.  News  from  her 
father,  however,  speedily  informed  her  of  her  husband's 
arrival,  and  this  was  quickly  followed  by  a  letter  h-om 
Salisbury  himself,  full  of  tlie  most  passionate  expressions 
of  attachment,  and  urging  her  immediate  presence.  To 
both  these  she  answered  by  a  plea  of  continued  illness; 
and  to  the  latter,  added  an  earnest  entreaty  that  her  lord 

U 


154  ORIGINAL 

would  hiiMself  come  to  Wark  Castle,  where  she  had  matter 
of  importance  to  communicate  to  him  ;  being  resolved  to 
explain  the  cause  of  her  reluctance  to  visit  London,  and 
confidentially  to  acquaint  the  Earl  with  the  solicitations  of 
the  King. 

This  last  letter  had  remained  unanswered  for  a  consi- 
derable time  ;  and  the  Countess  feared  that  she  had  given 
offence  to  both  her  husband  and  her  father,  when  at  length 
a  messenger  arrived  from  London.  The  Countess  snatched 
his  paquet  from  his  hand,  and  eagerly  perused  it ;  it  was 
from  her  father,  and  ran  thus : — 

"  My  dearest  Daughter, 
"  The  moment  has  arrived  when  you  must  arm  yourself 
with  all  that  fortitude  which  you  have  inherited  from  me. 
True  grandeur  resides  in  our  own  souls  ;  that  which  we 
derive  from  fortune  vanishes  with  the  other  illusions,  of 
which  this  life  is  compounded.  You  were  anxiously  ex- 
pecting your  husband  ;  and  he  was  about  to  receive  fur- 
ther honours  from  his  master  ;  but  the  King  of  kings  has 
decreed  that  Salisbury  should  not  live  to  enjoy  the  bounty 
of  his  monarch.  A  sudden  illness  has  just  removed  him 
from  this  world. 

*'Your  affectionate  father, 

"De  Grandison." 

The  decease  of  the  Earl  of  Salisbury  was  deeply  la- 
mented by  the  Countess.  Gallant,  generous,  and  affec- 
tionate, he  had  won  her  esteem  ;  and  had  she  had  an  op- 
portunity of  knowing  him  longer,  might  have  gained  her 
Jove.  Her  delicacy  too,  loaded  her  with  self-reproaches, 
from  which  she  did  not  attempt  to  escape  ;  and  made  her 
feel  the  loss  she  had  sustained  still  more  acutely.  ♦'  I  will 
repair  my  crime,"  she  said  ;  "I  will  revenge  the  manes  of 
Salisbury.  The  King,  although  affianced,  and  by  proxy 
espoused,  to  Philippa  of  Hainault,  will  renew  his  suit  to 
me  ;  but  he  shall  learn  that  esteem  and  duty  are  sometimes 
as  powerful  as  love  itself," 

By  the  death  of  the  gallant  Earl,  King  Edward  found 
himself  deprived  of  one  of  the  main  supporters  of  his 
crown  :  and  he  regretted  him  not  less  as  a  useful  citizen. 


TALES,  fOEMtr,  ETC.     ,  loo 


oi  whom  the  nation  was  justly  proud,  than  as  a  loyal  ser- 
vant, who  was  sincerely  attached  to  his  master.  Love, 
nevertheless,  mingled  with  the  King's  regrets ;  since  he 
could  not  hut  be  sensible  that  he  was  now  without  a  rival ; 
and  that  the  Countess  was  free  from  constraint,  which  had 
hitherto  separated  them  from  each  other.  The  Earl  died 
without  children  ;  and  the  law  compelled  his  widow  to  re- 
nounce the  territorial  possessions  which  were  attached  to 
the  title,  and  which  now  reverted  to  the  crown.  This 
event,  therefore,  rendered  her  presence  in  London  una- 
voidable ;  and,  on  her  arrival  in  the  metropolis,  her  father, 
desirous  to  relieve  her  from  the  melancholy  in  which  she 
was  plunged,  wished  to  introduce  her  at  court,  and  pre- 
sent her  to  the  King.  This  proposal,  however,  met  her 
firm  refusal.  "  What  is  it  that  you  propose  to  me,  my 
lord  ?"  said  she ;  "  ere  these  mourning  habiliments  are 
well  folded  round  me,  would  you  have  me  parade  them  in 
solemn  mockery  at  the  foot  of  the  throne  *?  Never  !  leave 
me,  I  conjure  you,  my  lord ;  leave  me  to  solitude  and 
silence  ;  to  forgetfulness  and  despair  !" 

De  Grandison  wished  not  to  constrain  the  inclinations 
of  his  daughter  ;  and  upon  communicating  the  reasons  of 
her  absence,  the  King  affected  to  be  satisfied  with  them. 
He  had,  however,  communicated  his  passion,  which  he 
did  not  choose  to  avow  to  honester  courtiers,  to  Sir  Wil- 
liam Trussell,  one  of  the  most  artful  intriguers,  and  insi- 
nuating sycophants  about  his  court;  who,  anxious  only  to 
secure  his  place  in  the  King's  favour,  had  encouraged  him 
in  the  prosecution  of  this  amour,  and  recommended  him 
to  use  stratagem,  and  even  violence,  should  it  be  necessary 
towards  the  attainment  of  his  object. 

"  The  ingrate  !"  said  the  King,  when  he  found  himself 
alone  with  Trussell ;  "  she  refuses  me  even  the  innocent 
gratification  of  beholding  her.  I  ask  but  an  interview ;  I 
v/ish  but  to  look  upon  her  beauty  ;  and  she  refuses  to 
grant  me  even  this  niggardly  boon,  for  all  that  she  has 
made  me  suffer." 

"  My  liege,"  said  Trussell,  "  it  is  compromising  your 
honour  and  your  dignity,  to  submit  to  such  audacity.  The 
daughter  of  de  Grandison  ought  to  feel  but  too  much  flat- 
tered tiiat  King  Edward  deigns  to  bestow  a  glance,  or  a 
thought,  upon  her.     Her  husband  is  in  the  tomb  ;  she  is 


loii  OKIGINAL 

free  from  all  restraint;  and  you  have  tendered  your  love  ; 
what  is  it  that  she  opposes  to  your  oiler'?  Her  virtue  !  Is 
not  obedience  virtue  1  Is  not  compliance  the  first  duty  of 
subjects  to  their  sovereii^n  1  My  Hege,  this  daughter  of 
de  Grandison  hides  intrigue  under  the  name  of  virtue- 
Your  grace  has  a  rival." 

"  Ha  !"  said  Edward,  while  his  lip  quivered,  and  his 
wljole  gigantic  frame  treml)led  like  an  aspen  leaf ;  "  by 
heaven,  thou  hast  it,  Trussell !  Fool  that  I  was  to  feign  that 
delicacy  and  reserve,  for  which  this  haughty  minion  now 
despises  me  !  Fly  to  her  then  ;  demand  an  audience,  and 
command  her  to  appear  at  court ;  tell  her  that  I  will  brook 
no  answer  but  com[)liance." 

Trussell  hastened  to  execute  the  Monarch's  orders; 
and  the  King,  left  to  himself,  began  to  ponder  on  the 
course  which  he  was  pursuing.  "  I  have  yielded,  then," 
said  he,  "to the  fiend's  suggestions  ;  and  thus  abased  my- 
self to  a  level  with  the  weakest,  and  most  despicable,  of 
mankind.  I  am  preparing  to  play  the  tyrant  with  my 
subjects,  and  my  fust  victim  is  an  unhappy  woman  ;  whose 
only  crime  is  the  obstinacy  with  which  she  repels  my 
unworthy  addresses.  Hither  !''  he  added,  clapping  his 
hands,  and  immediately  one  of  his  pages  stood  before  him  ; 
"  hasten  after  Sir  William  Trussell :  bid  him  attend  me 
instantly." 

"  Trussell,"  said  the  King,  as  he  returned,  equippc'  for 
the  errand  he  was  about  to  undertake,  "  I  have  consulted 
my  heart ;  1  have  lield  communion  with  myself;  and  I 
have  learned,  that  it  befits  not  Edward  of  England  to 
employ  force  or  artifice  to  achieve  the  conquest  of  the 
heart  of  Katharine  :  I  will  vanquish  her  obstinacy  by  other 
means." 

"  What,  my  liege  !"  said  Trussell,  "  will  you  then  sub- 
mit   V 

"  To  any  thing,  rather  than  suffer  the  Countess  of 
Salisbury  to  accuse  me  of  despotism." 

"  In  your  grace's  place "said  Trussell. 

"  In  my  place,"  interrupted  Edward,  "  you  would  act 
as  I  do  ;  I  wish  to  show,  that  I  possess  the  soul  as  well  as 
the  station  of  King.  Katherine  of  Salisbury  shall  not  be 
the  victim  of  my  caprice.  Go  ;  and,  in  future,  give  me 
only  such  counsel  as  shall  be  worthy  of  both  of  us." 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC-  157 

The  King  congratulated  himself  on  his  heroic  effort; 
and  it  vvas  one  which  cost  him  many  pangs  :  nor  was  the 
Countess  without  her  struggles,  and  her  anxieties  ;  for, 
Avhile  the  image  of  her  lost  husband  was  hourly  becoming 
more  effaced  from  her  heart,  that  of  the  King  was  more 
deeply  engraven  there  than  ever.  She  received  many 
letters  from  hiin,  but  answered  none  ;  and  the  pride  of  the 
royal  lover  began  to  take  fire  again  at  the  neglect  and 
contumely  with  which  his  mistress  treated  his  addresses  : 
while  Trussell  used  every  means  of  nourishing  this  feel- 
ing, and  of  insinuating  that  both  the  father  and  daughter 
were  anxious  only  to  enhance  the  price,  at  which  the 
virtue  of  the  latter  was  to  be  bartered. 
;  D '  Grandison,  who  began  to  think  that  his  daughter 
carried  her  grief  for  her  husband  to  an  extravagant  and 
immoderate  height,  now  remonstrated  with  her,  somewhat 
impetuously,  on  her  absence  from  the  court. 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  he,  "  that  1  will  willingly  behold 
you  in  a  state  of  eternal  widowhood  ?  or  that  I  will  suffer 
you  to  fail  in  the  respect  and  duty  which  we  owe  the  King  ? 
Is  there  a  monarch  in  the  world  so  worthy  of  his  subjects' 
love  ?  of  his  subjects'  hearts  1"  ' 

"  Alas  '."said  the  Countess,  "  who  can  feel  more  deeply 
than  I  do,  how  much  we  are  indebted  to  him  !  But  take 
care,  my  father,  that  he  performs  the  contracts  for  which 
his  roya!  word  and  your  own  are  irrevocably  given.  See 
that  he  weds,  and  that  speedily,  Phiiippa  li-  Hainault." 

"Wherefore  shou'd  I  doubt  that  he  will  do  sol"  said 
de  Grandison.  "  Is  he  no-  pledged,  in  the  face  of  all 
Europe,  to  become  her  husband  1  and  was  I  not  the 
bearer  of  his  promise  to  the  Earl  of  Hainault  to  that 
effect  1" 

"  He  will  never  wed  her,  my  father,"  said  the  Countess  ; 
"  you  are  yourself  witness  that  from  day  to  day  he  defers 
the  marriage,  on  the  most  frivolous  pretexts." 

"  Nay,  nay,  sweet  Katharme,"  said  the  old  lord, 
■'  wherefore  should  you  take  so  tnucii  interest  in  this  mar- 
riage  ?  This  is  but  a  stratagem  to  put  mc'from  my  suit. 
I  am  going  this  evening  to  attend  the  King ;  you  must 
accompany  me." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dearest  father  ;  pardon  me,  but  I  can- 
not go." 


158  OKlUlNAJb 

«  I  entreat,  I  command  you,"  said  de  Grandison.  « 1 
have  too  long  permitted  your  disobedience  and  now——" 

"  Father  !  behold  me  a  suppliant  on  my  knees  before 
you  !  defer,  but  for  a  few  days  defer  this  visit  to  the  court ; 
and  then  I  will  obey  you." 

"  What  mean  this  emotion,  Katherine  ?"  said  her  father ; 
"  1  find  it  diflicult  to  refuse  you  any  thing.  Do  not  forget, 
however,  that  the  delay  which  1  grant  must  be  but  a  short 
one  ;  in  three  days  you  must  accompany  me." 

This  interview,  however,  which  the  baron  had  been 
unable  to  effect,  either  by  his  commands  or  his  entreaties, 
he  at  last  managed  to  accomplish  by  a  stratagem.  He 
persuaded  his  daughter  to  consent  to  accompany  him  to 
a  masked  ball,  to  which  she  had  been  invited  by  the 
Countess  of  Suffolk,  at  her  seat  a  few  miles  distant  from 
London  ;  and  the  fair  and  noble  widow  no  sooner  made 
her  appearance  among  the  assembled  company,  than 
every  eye  was  fixed  upon  her.  Her  tall  and  stately,  yet 
graceful  figure,  glided  down  the  rooms  like  a  visitant  from 
another  sphere,  when  an  unfortunate  accident  completely 
disconcerted  her.  A  mask,  richly  dressed,  had  long  fol- 
lowed her  through  all  the  apartments  ;  when,  as  she  was 
endeavouring  with  some  embarrassment  to  escape  from  his 
pursuit,  by  hurrying  to  a  vacant  seat,  her  garter  dropped 
upon  the  floor  !  The  mask  eagerly  stooped  down  and 
seized  it,  and  she  as  eagerly,  instantly  demanded  its  resto- 
ration. 

*'  Nay,  gentle  madam,"  said  he,  "  this  is  a  prize  too 
precious  to  be  lightly  parted  with,  and  I " 

"  Discourteous  knight !"  said  the  lady,  "  know  you 
whom  you  treat  with  so  much  indignity  ?"  and  at  these 
words  she  removed  the  mask  from  her  face,  hoping  thus 
to  awe  her  persecutor  into  acquiescence.  Her  surprise, 
however,  was  equal  to  that  of  any  one  present,  when  her 
tormentor,  removing  his  own  visor,  discovered  the  features 
of  KingEiiward  !  The  lady  sank  on  her  knee  before  the 
monarch,  and  the  whole  company  followed  her  example. 

"  Behold  !"  cried  the  King,  holding  up  the  ravished 
garter,  "  a  treasure,  of  the  possession  of  which  I  own 
myself  unworthy;  yet  will  1  not  part  with  it,  for  any  ran- 
som wealth  or  power  can  offer."  An  ill-suppressed  burst 
of  laughter  followed  this  speech,     "  Honi  soit  qui  nal  y 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC.  169 

pense  /"  exclaimed  the  King-,  "  Laugh  on,  my  lords  and 
gentlemen  !  but  in  good  time  the  merriest  of  ye,  ay,  and 
the  greatest  sovereigns  of  Europe,  shall  be  proud  to  wear 
this  garter."  Thus  saying  the  King  whispered  a  few  words 
to  the  Countess,  which  seemed  to  occasion  her  considera- 
ble embarrassment ;  and  then,  making  a  lowly  obeisance, 
left  the  apartment. 

The  declaration  which  he  had  that  night  made,  he 
shortly  afterward  accomplished,  by  instituting  the  far- 
renowned  order  of  the  Garter  ;  which,  with  the  ceremo- 
nies and  entertainments  consequent  upon  it,  for  some  time 
occupied  the  almost  undivided  attention  of  king  Edward. 
His  love  fo?  the  Countess  of  Salisbury  was,  however,  now 
openly  avowed  ;  and  the  arrival  of  the  princess  Philippa, 
to  whom  he  had  already  been  married  by  proxy,  was 
delayed  in  consequence  of  his  not  sending  the  necessary 
escort.  The  people  soon  began  to  murmur  at  this  delay, 
since  not  only  the  honour  of  the  King,  but  of  the  nation 
also,  was  concerned  in  keeping  faith  with  the  Count  of 
Hainault,  whose  alliance  was  of  such  vital  importance  to 
the  interests  of  England.  It  was  at  this  juncture  that  the 
lord  de  Grandison  presented  himself  to  the  king,  and 
demanded  a  private  audience. 

"  I  have  letters,  my  liege,"  said  the  Baron,  "  from  the 
Count  of  Hainault,  who  bitterly  complains  of  the  delay  in 
executing  the  treaty,  with  the  conclusion  of  which  your 
grace  was  pleased  to  honour  me." 

At  these  words  the  King  changed  colour,  which  the 
Baron  was  not  slow  in  observing,  as  he  continued,  "where- 
fore, my  liege,  should  this  intelligence  displease  you  ?  I 
perceive  in  your  glance  traces  of  indiflerence,  and  even  ol 
dislike,  towards  this  union,  which  all  England  expects 
with  such  impatience." 

"  De  Grandison,"  said  Edward,  "  kings  are  formed  of 
the  same  materials  as  other  men  :  they  have  hearts,  and 
mine  is  consumed  by  a  passion,  which  makes  me  sensible 
that  rank  and  power  are  not  happiness." 

"  What,  my  liege  !  have  your  eyes  betrayed  your  heart 
to  another  object?  can  you  forswear  your  royal  word? 
Honour,  fame,  policy,  all  forbid  it ;  all  consj)ire  to  hasten 
your  n)arriage  with  the  Lady  Philippa.'' 

'•  If  you  knew  the  beauty  of  my  own  court,  who  ha>; 


IGU  OKIGINAJ- 

inspired  my  passion,  my  lord,  you  would  not  press  this 
subject." 

"  I  know  nothing  but  your  grace's  interest  and  honour," 
said  de  Grandison.  "  Pardon  my  frankness,  but  there 
can  be  no  motive  of  sufficient  weight  to  occasion  any 
further  delay." 

"No  motive,  Lord  de  Grandison  ?  said  Edward,  and  he 
sighed.  "  Alas !  I  see  that  age  has  chilled  your  blood, 
and  frozen  uj)  your  heart." 

"  My  liege,  I  burn  more  than  ever  with  devotion  to  your 
service.  It  this  marriage  be  not  solemnized,  and  speedih^ 
you  will  offend  a  powerful  prince,  to  whom  you  are  in- 
debted for  many  benetits,  and  also  disappoint  the  fond 
hopes  of  your  loyal  people.  You  forget  yourself,  my 
liege  ;  remember  that  you  are  a  king,  and  king  of  Eng- 
land !  1  speak  to  Edward ;  who,  stripped  even  of  the 
splendours  of  royalty,  should  still  be  worthy  of  the  respect 
and  admiration  of  mankind" 

"  We  shall  see,  my  Lord  de  Grandison,"  said  the  King; 
"  but  now  leave  me  ;  leave  me." 

The  old  Baron  had  no  sooner  left  Edward,  than  the 
King  summoned  Trussed  to  an  audience,  and  informed  him 
of  his  recent  interview,  and  of  its  unlavourable  result ; 
adding,  "  I  wished  to  speak  to  him  of  his  daughter,  and  of 
my  love  for  her ;  but  I  know  not  wherefore,  I  was  unable 
to  explain  myself  There  is  a  fierce  inflexibility  about 
that  old  man,  which  I  admire,  and  yet  which  irritates  me. 
I  reverence,  and  yet  I  fear  him !" 

"  And  is  your  grace  deceived  by  this  de  Grandison's 
affectation  «f  inflexibility  and  virtue  ?  Believe  me,  my 
liege,  that  the  old  lord  and  his  daughter  both  have  their 
price  ;  although  it  is  a  somewhat  extravagant  one.  But 
suffer  me  to  undertake  your  grace's  suit ;  and  doubt  not 
I  will  so  manage  it,  that  the  Baron  himself  shall  be  the 
first  to  give  the  lovely  Countess  to  your  arms." 

Upon  leaving  the'  Kmg,  Tn  sst^ll  Si-eedily  sought  and 
found  the  Baron  alone  in  his  aj)artrnent,  perusing  and 
sighing  over  his  despatches  from  the  Count  de  Hainault. 
De  Grandison  had  that  instinctive  aversion  for  his  visiter, 
which  was  natural  to  a  mind  like  his  ;  still  he  could  not 
refuse  to  listen  to  a  messenger  from  the  King;  and  Trus- 
sell  accordingly  called  up  all  the  resources  of  an  artful 


TALES,  fOEMS,   ETC.  1(51 

genius,  skilled  in  the  deepest  intrigues  and  subtleties  of  a 
court,  to  explain  the  object  of  his  visit  with  as  much  deli- 
cacy as  possible.  The  old  Lord  listened  with  a  cold  and 
disdainful  attention,  till  the  conclusion  of  his  harangue, 
and  then  replied,  "  Sir  WiUiam  Trussell,  you  explain 
yourself  very  clearly.  The  King  loves  my  daughter,  and 
you  come  to  persuade  me  to  use  ni}  influence  in  inducing 
her  to  yield  to  his  grace's  wishes." 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  Lord,"  said  Trussell,  "  your  Lordship 
misconceives  me.  I  spoke  merely  of  management  and 
prudence  ;  of  modes  of  conduct  to  be  observed  by  your 
Lordship  and  the  Countess.  You  have  been  more  than 
fifty  years  a  courtier,  my  Lord,  and  1  cannot  be  speaking 
a  language  which  you  do  not  understand.  It  is  for  your 
Lordship,  therefore,  to  decide  what  answer  I  shall  bear 
from  you  to  the  King." 

"  I  will  bear  it  myself.  Sir  William,"  said  de  Grandison, 
rising  from  his  seat ;  "  and  that  instantly." 

"  You  cannot  mean  it,  my  Lord,"  said  Trussell;  "you 
surely  cannot " 

"  Any  further  conversation  between  us,"  said  de  Gran- 
dison, "  is  quite  unnecessary.  His  giace  shall  shortly 
see  me." 

Scarcely  was  the  unhappy  father  reUeved  from  the  pre- 
sence of  Trussell,  than  he  sank  upon  a  seat  in  a  state  of 
distraction.     "  This  then  was  Edward's  reason  for  desiring 

the  presence  of  my  daughter,  and  he  would !  but  he 

is  incapable  of  such  baseness ;  it  is  that  villain  Trussell 
who  has  corrupted  the  princely  current  of  his  thoughts 
and  feelings.  Or  can  my  daughter  be  acquainted  with  the 
King's  weakness  1  Can  Katharine  be  an  accomplice  in 
this  amour  1     If  but  in  thought  she  has  dishonoured  these 

gray  hairs !"  his  look  grew  black  as  midnight  as  he 

grasped  his  sword,  and  rushed  from  the  apartment. 

The  interview  with  his  daughter  at  once  removed  the 
most  painful  of  the  old  man's  suspicions,  and  with  an 
anxious,  but  determined  heart,  he  then  presented  himself 
before  the  King. 

"  Welcome,  my  Lord  de  Grandison,"  said  the  monarch; 
"  my  good  friend  Trussell  has  revealed  to  you  the  precious 
secret  of  my  heart;  and  you  come  to  tell  me  I  have  not 

X 


iOi{  ORIGINAL 

relied  in  vain  upon  3  our  friendship,  and  your  loyalty ;  yout 
daughter " 

"  I  have  just  left  her,  my  liege  ;  and  she  has  laid  open 
her  whole  heart  to  me." 

*'  And  she  hates  me  1"  said  the  King  impatiently. 

"  The  most  dutiful  and  loyal  of  your  grace's  subjects, 
Katharine  offers  you  a  homage  the  most  respectful  and 
profound.  But  she  is  the  daughter  of  de  Grandison  ;  she 
is  the  widow  of  Salisbury  ;  and  that  neither  of  those 
names  have  yet  been  tainted  with  dishonour,  is  a  truth  of 
which  the  King  of  England  needs  least  of  all  men  to  be  re- 
minded." 

"  What  have  I  heard  ?"  said  the  King. 

"Truth,  njy  liege;  truth,  to  whose  accents  your  minions 
would  close  your  ears,  but  whom  you  hear  speaking  by 
Jny  mouth.     My  daughter  is  not  fitted  for  the  rival  of  the 

Princess  of  llainault;  and  to  be .    If  I  offend,  my  liege, 

my  head  is  at  your  grace's  disposal.  1  have  finished  my 
course  ;  and  shall  soon  be  no  longer  in  a  condition  to 
serve  you.  Why  then  should  1  care  for  the  few  days 
which  nature  might  yet  permit  me  to  live  ?  At  least,  I 
shall  die  with  the  assurance,  that  my  daughter  will  cherish 
the  memory  of  her  father,  and  of  his  honour.  Dispose  of 
me  as  you  please,  my  liege  ;  you  are  my  master." 

"  Yes,  traitor,"  answered  Edward  ;  "  and  I  would  be 
your  protector,  and  your  friend  ;  but  you  compel  me  to 
exhibit  myself  only  as  your  sovereign.  Instantly  command 
your  daughter's  presence  here,  or  pie[)are  yourself  for  a 
lodging  in  the  Tower." 

"  The  Tower,  n)y  liege,"  replied  de  Grandison  ;  "  I 
will  hasten  thither  with  as  much  alacrity  as  I  interposed 
my  shield  between  your  grace's  breast,  and  the  arrow 
which  was  pointed  at  it,  on  the  field  of  battle." 

"Audacious  traitor  !"  said  the  monarch;  "away  with 
him  to  the  Tower  !" 

De  Grandison  was  immediately  hurried  ofJj  closely 
guarded  ;  and  at  that  moment  Sii'  Neele  Loring,  a  gallant 
knight,  who  was  one  of  the  first  invested  with  the  order  of 
the  garter,  lushed  into  the  royal  presence,  exclaiming, 
«<  what  have  I  beheld,  my  liege  1" 

"  The  puiiishment  due  to  outraged  majesty,"  replied 
tlie  Kini!:. 


TALES,  POEMS,  ETC  ICH 

•'  Nay,  nay,  my  I'rege  ;  wherefore  deprive  your  old  and 
faithful  servant  of  his  liberty  ?  and  for  what  crime  *?  Can 
it  be  King  Edward  to  whom  I  am  speaking  ?  Can  it  be 
Edward  who  would  load  the  limbs  of  old  de  Grandison 
with  fetters  ?    But  you  relent,  your  Grace  remembers — " 

At  that  instant  Trussell  entered  :  "  My  liege,  de  Gran- 
dison vents  his  anger  in  violence  and  threats  ;  he  would 
write  to  his  daughter,  but  I  have  denied  him  permission 
so  to  do. 

*'  You  hear.  Sir  Neele,"  said  the  King  ;  "the  old  traitor 
indulges  in  threats  fowards  our  royal  person  ;  bu^  I  am 
weary  of  your  boldness,  Sir  Knight ;  I  am  the  King  of 
England,  and  my  subjects  shall  obey  me." 

The  bold  knight  had  no  sooner  disappeared,  than  an 
object  of  still  greater  interest  presented  itself;  it  was  the 
Countess  of  Salisbury.  Pale  and  trembling,  with  dishe- 
velled locks  and  streaming  eyes,  but  still  surpassingly 
beautiful,  the  lovely  Katharine  threw  herself  at  the  King's 
feet. 

"Sire!  Sire!"  she  shrieked,  "give  me  back  my  fa- 
ther !" 

A  blush  of  self-reproach  mantled  on  the  brow  of  Ed- 
ward, as  he  extended  his  hand,  and  raised  the  lovely  sup- 
pliant from  her  knees.  "  Pardon,  madam,"  said  he, 
"  pardon  the  acts  to  which  a  lover's  despair  drives  him. 
Remember  that  the  first  sight  of  you  kindled  in  my  breast 
a  flame  vhich  yet  I  stifled  during  the  lifetime  of  your  gal- 
lant husband.  Salisbury,  heaven  assoil  his  soul !  is  now 
in  his  grave  ;  and  yet  now,  when  I  acquaint  you  with  my 
sufferings,  and  my  hopes,  you  answer  me  only  with  your 
reproaches  and  your  tears." 

"  My  tears,  my  liege,  are  all  that  remain  to  me  for  my 
defence  ;  and  yet  they  touch  you  not." 

"  Say'st  thou  that  they  touch  me  not  ?  Is  it  for  you, 
sweet  Katharine,  to  doubt  your  empire  over  my  heart  1 
I  am  no  longer  able  to  impose  laws  on  that  passion  which 
you  repay  with  ingratitude." 

"  I  am  no  ingrate,  most  dread  sovereign,"  replied  the 
Countess  ;  "  would  that  you  could  see  my  heart.  But, 
my  liege,  can  I,  ought  1  to  forget  that  ray  aged  father  is 
in  fetters  ?" 

'-.'  They  shall  bo  broken,''  said  the  King  ;  "  he  shall 


id4  ORIGINAL 

resume  his  station  as  my  best  trusted  pounsellor,  and  his 
daughter " 

"Forbear,  my  liege,  to  finish  what  you  would  say.  I 
speak  not  of  his  daughter." 

"  Then  her  father,  Katharine, — " 

"  My  father  can  but  die.  Sire  ;  what  right  have  I,  my 
jiege,  to  entertain  your  grace's  love,  when  the  Princess  of 
Hainault  is  waiting  to  take  her  seat  beside  you  upon  the 
throne  of  England.  But  release  my  father,  and  I  will 
wander  from  your  presence,  where  the  sight  of  the  un- 
happy Katharine  never  more  shall  trouble  you.  Restore 
ray  father  to  me,  and  we  will  begone  from  hence  for  ever  !" 

"  No,  adorable  Katharine  !"  said  the  King,  "  your  father 
shall  be  free  ;  and  you  shall  still  know  your  sovereign  your 
lover,  and  see  him  worthy  of  your  love." 

Thus  saying,  he  left  the  Countess  alone  in  the  presence 
chamber,  where  she  remained  a  considerable  time,  much 
wondering  at  his  behaviour,  and  suffering  great  uneasiness 
of  mind.  At  length  Sir  Neele  Loring  approached,  and 
sinking  on  his  knee  before  her,  said, — "  Madam,  permit 
me  to  conduct  you  to  the  place,  which  the  King's  com- 
mauds  have  assigned  for  you." 

The  Countess,  much  troubled  and  trembling,  silently 
gave  the  knight  her  hand,  and  traversed  with  him  a  vast 
suite  of  splendid  apartments,  until  they  at  length  arrived 
at  a  door,  which,  opening,  led  into  a  magnificent  saloon, 
where  she  beheld  Edward  seated  on  his  throne,  sur- 
rounded by  his  courtiers  ;  all  of  whom,  and  even  the 
sovereign  himself,  were  decorated  with  the  insignia  of  the 
garter.  Upon  her  entrance,  the  King  rushed  towards  her, 
and  with  one  hand  taking  hold  of  hers,  with  the  other 
placed  the  crown  upon  her  head. 

"Approach,  dearest  lady  !''  said  he,  "and  share  the 
throne  of  the  Kmg  of  England,  and  the  homage  of  his 
subjects.  Become  my  consort  ;  my  queen.  Beauty, 
truth,  and  virtue,  call  you  to  the  throne  ;  and  in  placing 
you  there  I  i-qiiallv  fulfil  my  own  wishes,  and  those  of  my 
people.  They  will  applaud  my  choice,  for  it  is  worthy  of 
me.  Your  father  is  free  ;  and,  both  to  him  and  you,  will 
I  repair  the  injustice  which  I  have  committed." 

"  Beauty,  my  liege,"  said  Sir  Neele  Loring,  "  was 
made  to  reign  ;  for  it  was  man's  first  sovereign." 


TALES,  POEMS,  ETC.  1^9 

The  Countess,  overwhelmed  with  the  suddenness  of  her 
surprise,  was  scarcely  able  to  articulate.  "  My  liege,*' 
said  she,  "  the  throne  is  not  my  place  :  the  Princess  of 
Hdinault " 

"  Yf's,"  said  the  Lord  de  Grandison,  bursting  into  the 
apartment,  "  She  only  must  sit  there  ! — What,  my  liege  ! 
my  daughter  crowned,  and  about  to  ascend  the  throne  ! 
Is  that  the  price  at  which  my  chains  are  broken  ?  Back 
with  me  to  the  Tower  !  Rather  eternal  slavery,  than  free- 
dom purchased  by  dishonour !" 

"  My  Lord  de  Grandison,"  said  the  King,  "  listen  to  me. 
I  have  given  your  daughter  my  hand,  she  is  my  queen,  and 
wherefore  would  jou  oppose  our  happiness  1" 

"  Aly  daughter  queen !"  exclaimed  the  Baron ;  "  Katha- 
rine,'' he  added,  addressing  her  in  a  tone  of  supplication, 
"  wilt  thou  lend  thysellto  the  cause  of  falsehood  and  per- 
jury 1  wilt  thou  aid  thy  King  to  break  a  promise  plighted 
in  the  face  ol  Europe  ?  listen  to  me  and  prove  thyself  my 
daughter.  Put  off  that  diadem.  Fat!  at  the  King's  feet 
for  pardon  ;  or,  if  thou  canst  not  perform  the  dictates  of 
duty,  then  die,  and  heaven  {)ardon  thee  !" 

He  drew  a  dagger  from  his  bosom  as  he  spoke,  and  as 
the  King  arrested  his  hand  he  continued,  "  Approach  me 
not,  my  liege,  or  1  bury  this  dagger  in  her  heart.  Give 
me  thy  royal  word  that  she  shall  not  be  queen,  or ^* 

"  My  liege  !"  said  the  Countess,  lilting  the  crown  from 
her  brow,  and  falling  at  Edward's  feet,  "  it  must  not  be  ; 
your  royal  word  is  pledged  ;  the  nation's  honour  is  its 
guarantee  ;  and  war  and  desolation  would  follow  the 
violation  of  your  plighted  promise.  I  am  Katharine  of 
Salisbury,  your  grace's  most  faithful  subject ;  but  dare 
not  be  your  queen." 

"  Generous  beings  !"  said  the  King,  "  it  is  you  who 
teach  me  how  to  rtign.  Rise,  gracious  madam  ;  rise,  my 
good  L>rd  de  Giandison.  You,  my  noble  friend,  shall 
instantly  proceed  to  the  court  of  Hainault,  to  bring  over 
my  affianced  bride.  Your  lovely  daughter  must  not  be  my 
wife  ;  but  you  will  suffi  r  her  to  remain  at  my  court,  its 
brightest  and  most  distinguished  oinament.'' 

Thus  ended  the  adventure  of  the  garter,  without  any  of 
those  disastrous  consequences,  which  once  seemed  so 
threatening.     The  Princess  of  Hainault  filled  the  throne 


H)6  ORIGINAL    TALES,     POEMS,    ETl  . 

to  which  she  was  called  by  the  voice  of  the  nation,  and 
won  and  merited  the  love  of  her  royal  consort.  Anxious 
to  give  to  the  virtuous  object  of  his  former  passion  a 
splendid  testimony  of  the  sentiments  which  he  still  enter- 
tained towards  her,  the  King,  on  his  marriage,  renewed 
the  institution  of  the  order  of  the  garter.  De  Grandison 
long  continued  to  hold  the  highest  place  in  the  royal  fa- 
vour ;  the  Countess  of  Salisbury  appeared  at  court  as  the 
friend  of  Queen  Philippa  ;  and  long  continued  the  object 
of  the  respectful  [lassion  of  the  greatest  monarch  who  har| 
ever  filled  the  throne  of  England. 


BLANCHK    OF    BOURBON 

A  ROMANCE  OF  SPANISH  HISTORY. 


■At  his  birth,  be  sure  on  't, 


Some  devil  thrust  sweet  nature's  hand  aside, 
Ere  she  had  pour'd  her  balm  into  his  breast, 
To  warm  his  gross  and  earthly  clod  with  pity. 

COLMAK. 


The  accession  of  Don  Pedro  to  the  throne  of  Castile, 
on  the  death  of  his  father  Alphonso,  was  speedily  followed 
by  violent  insurrectionary  movements  among  all  classes  of 
the  people.  Although  Pedro  was  the  only  legitimate  off- 
spring of  his  father,  the  nation  in  general  fondly  wished 
that  the  sceptre  might  pass  into  the  hands  of  Don  Henry, 
Count  of  Trastamare,  eldest  son  of  the  deceased  king  by 
bis  concubine,  the  beautiful  Leonora  de  Guzman.  This 
prince  had  already  distinguished  himself  by  his  valour  and 
wisdom  ;  his  kind  and  condescending  demeanour  ;  and 
even  by  his  attachment  and  fidelity  to  the  new  king; 
since  he  laboured  with  the  utmost  solicitude  not  only  to 
coniirm  the  allegiance  of  his  own  partizans  to  Pedro,  but 
to  discourage  every  attempt  at  disturbing  the  peace  of  the 
monarchy.  Pedro,  however,  who  by  his  conduct  during 
his  reign  acquired  the  surname  ol  "the  Cruel,"  took  the 
earliest  oppoitunity  of  seizing  the  person  of  Don  Henry's 
mother,  Leonora,  whom  he  immediately  committed  to  the 
custody  of  the  queen  dowager  ;  who  no  sooner  found  her 
hated  lival  in  her  p(jwer,  than  she  caused  her  to  be  put  to 
a  cruel  and  lingeiing  death.  All  Castile  was  indignant  at 
^his  atrocity  ;  and  [)on  Henry  flew  to  arms.     Don  Fre 


168  ORIOilNAL 

dcrick,  grand  master  ol'  St.  James,  Don  Tello,  Lord  oi 
Aguilar,  and  Don  Ferdinand.  Lord  of  Lcdesne,  his 
brothers,  the  other  sons  of  the  unfortunate  Leonora,  im- 
mediately joined  him  ;  and  having  raised  a  considerable 
force,  took  possession  of  the  town  of  Gijon,  and  bade  defi- 
ance to  the  tyrant. 

Intelligence  of  the  revolt  of  the  Princes  was  brought  to 
Don  P»'dro  as  he  was  taking  his  evening  promenade  on  the 
terrace  of  the  roval  gardens  of  Valladolid,  accompanied 
by  bis  Prime  Minister,  Don  Alphonso  d'Albuquerque. 
"Hearest  thou  this,  Alphonso *?"  said  the  king.  "The 
bastard  Henry,  and  his  brothers,  have  garrisoned  the  Cas- 
tle of  Gijon,  and  troops,  headed  by  the  discontented 
nobles,  are  daily  flocking  to  their  assistance." 

"  I  hear  it,  Sire,"  said  the  minister,  "  with  sorrow  and 
alarm  " 

"  And  wherefore  so,  good  Alphonso  1"  replied  Don 
Pedro.  "  Let  all  the  factions  in  Castile,  and  they  are  not 
a  few,  rally  round  the  hanner  of  the  bastards ;  let  the 
puling  kings  of  Arragoii  and  Navarre,  who  have  already 
shown  that  they  bear  me  no  good  will,  join  in  the  traitor- 
ous league  ;  ay,  let  even  the  powers  of  France,  and 
the  proud  islanders  of  the  West,  for  once  agree  for  ray 
destruction ;  yet  I  fear  not.  I  have  allies,  whose  power 
and  influence,  not  all  of  these  together  banded,  could 
withstand." 

"  And  who,  Sire,"  inquired  (he  minister  wonderingly  ; 
"  who  are  the  allies  who  could  [lossibly  defend  your  ma- 
jesty against  such  a  coniederacy  ?" 

"  The  Stars  !  the  Stars  are  with  us,  Albuquerque  !" 
exclaimed  the  King.  "  Look  yonder,"  he  continued, 
pointing  to  the  sky;  "and  see  how  even  now,  at  the  very 
instant  that  I  receive  this  news,  the  heavens  are  smiling 
on  me." 

Albuquerque  looked  towards  the  sky,  and  beheld  indeed 
one  of  those  evenings  of  surpassing  beauty,  which  are 
seldom  seen  even  beneath  the  glowing  atmosphere  of 
Spain.  The  sun  had  set  some  time,  but  still  the  west  re- 
tained a  portion  of  his  declining  glory,  which,  with  a  varied 
line  of  deep  red  light,  defined  the  summits  of  the  distant 
bills.  Above  them  spread  the  deep  blue  sky,  bespangled 
^vith  innumerable  starSj  intensely  bright ;  among  which  the 


TALUS,  POEMS,  ETC.  16.9 

largest  and  most  resplendent  was  the  planet  Jupiter,  which 
shone  over  the  palace  of  A'alladolid,  and  seemed  to  be 
shedding  its  brightest  beams  ujion  the  royal  residence. 

"  That  is  my  natal  star  !"  said  the  king  ;  '*  that  noble 
planet,  or  rather  that  other  sun,  which  seems  to  traverse 
the  system  in  rivalship,  and  not  in  the  train  of  the  great 
source  of  light  and  heat.  See,  how  ail  others  shrink  their 
beams  before  him.  Even  Mars,  that  lurid  orb  which  now 
threatens  me,  quails  before  his  superior  brightness.  The 
omens  are  most  prophious  !" 

*'  Even  so.  Oh  King  !"  said  a  sharp,  shrill  voice  behind 
them ;  and,  turning  round,  they  perceived  an  aged  man,  ot 
a  noble  and  venerable  countenance,with  a  long  white  beard 
and  black  expressive  eyes,  which  rivalled  in  brightness 
even  the  stars  on  which  they  had  been  gazing.  He  wore 
a  turban  on  his  head,  and  was  dressed  after  the  oriental 
fashion,  in  a  white  flowing  robe.  This  was  Simon  Joseph, 
the  favourite  Jewish  physician,  and  astrologer  to  the  king, 
whom  he  kept  constantly  about  his  person. 

"Sayestthou  so,  good  Joseph!"  said  Don  Pedro;  "and 
who  shall  gainsay  thee,  when  thou  hast  read  the  stars  1  But 
what  brings  thee  hither,  at  this  hour  ?' 

"  I  came  to  tell  thee,  sire,  that  this  evening,  as  I  drew 
thy  horoscope,  I  read  the  prediction  of  strange  events. 
Danger,  and  contest,  but,  at  the  same  time,  triumph  and 
victory  were  foretold  there ;  ay,  and  love  was  mentioned 
in  the  starry  prophecy.  Ynn  planet  Jupiter  is  now  lord 
of  the  ascendant;  Mars  and  Venus  are  in  conjunction  ;  and 
Saturn,  dull  and  dim,  is  quenched  beneath  their  over- 
whelming influence." 

'♦Thou  read'st  strange  riddles,  Simon  Joseph,"  said  Don 
Pedro  ;  "  but  a  part,  at  least,  of  thy  prophecy  is  true  ;  for 
I  hold  here  letters,  which  inform  me,  that  the  sons  of 
Leonora  de  Guzman  are  in  arms ;  and  defy  me  from  be- 
hind the  strong  walls  of  Gijon.  What  would'st  thou  have 
me  do  ?" 

"  On  to  the  fight,  sire  V  said  the  astrologer,  and  then 
added,  pointing  to  the  planet  Jupiter,  "before  that  star 
sets  behind  the  western  hills,  let  the  king  he  on  his  march 
to  battle  and  to  conquest.  Don  Pedro,  do  not  hope  for 
ease  and  cjuietness,  but  thy  reign  shall  be  long  and  pros- 
perous.    Victory  shall  wait  upon  thy  banners,  and  new 


170  ORIGINAL 

kingdoms  shall  be  added  to  Castile."  Thus  saying,  and 
drawing  his  robe  moie  closely  round  him,  Simon  Joseph 
left  the  terrace,  and  tlie  kuii^anl  his  minister  speedily  fol- 
lowed him.  Don  Pedro,  among  whose  vices  cowardice 
could  not  be  numbered,  determmed  to  adopt  the  advice  of 
the  astrologer.  Although  he  scoti'ed  at  all  idea  of  religion, 
he  was  a  fervent  believer  in  the  occult  sciences,  and  never 
entered  upon  any  pursuit  of  importance  without  consult- 
ing the  stars.  That  very  evening,  accordmgly,  saw  him 
at  the  head  of  as  many  troops  as  could  be  mustered  at  so 
short  a  notice,  depait  from  Valladolid,  having  left  instruc- 
tions for  a  formidable  force  to  follow  him. 

In  a  few  days  the  King  of  Castile,  with  a  numerous 
army,  had  sat  down  belore  the  gates  of  Gijon.  They  had 
already  had  various  skirmishes  on  their  march  with  de- 
tached parties  oi'  the  enemy  ;  and  on  their  first  attack 
upon  the  town,  they  carried  the  most  important  out[)ost ; 
so  that  ultimate  success  now  appeared  certain.  In  the 
mean  time,  however,  the  heart  of  the  monarch  had  sur- 
rendered at  the  hrst  summons  to  the  charms  of  a  beautiful 
young  female,  of  a  noble  family,  named  Maria  de  Padilla, 
in  the  suite  of  Madame  d' Albuquerque,  who  had  followed 
her  husband  to  the  army.  This  young  lady  possessed 
numerous  attractions,  both  of  mind  and  person.  Although 
not  tall,  she  was  exquisitely  formed  ;  and  her  whole  form 
and  manner  were  equally  graceful  and  bewitchmg.  Her 
complexion  was  of  the  most  dazzling  lairness  ;  her  eyes 
black  and  sparkling  ;  and  her  features  of  a  regularity,  in 
which  the  most  fastidious  connoisseur  in  beauty  could  find 
nothing  to  object  to.  She  possessed  an  infinite  fund  of 
wit,  and  was  of  a  gay  and  lively  temper  ;  but  she  was,  at 
the  same  time,  vain  and  ambitious  ;  and  a  perfect  mistress 
of  every  species  of  dissimidation.  Obdurate  and  san- 
guinary as  was  the  disj^osition  ol'  Don  Prdio,  he  became 
.deeply  fascinated  with  the  charms  of  Maria ;  "  and 
TiOve,"  say  the  historians  of  that  age,  "  held  in  his  bosom 
divided  empire  with  cruelty."  She,  dazzled  by  the  splen- 
dour of  royalty,  and  the  prospect  of  power  and  greatness, 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  remonstrances  of  virtue  ;  and  after 
a  very  feeble  and  ill-counterfeited  resistance,  became  the 
mistress  of  the  King  of  Castile.  Don  Pedro  was  now  as 
eager  to  conclude  the  war,  as  he  had  been  to  commence 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC.  17|: 

it ;  and  having  made  terms  with  the  revolted  Princes,  he 
disbanded  his  forces,  and  retired  with  Maria  to  Torrejos, 
a  little  town  near  Toledo, 

It  is  necessary  to  state  here,  that  previous  to  the 
occurrence  ot  these  events.  Dun  Pedro  had  asked  in 
mariiage  the  hand  of  the  beautiful  Blanche  de  Bourbon, 
sister  of  the  Queen  of  France,  and  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy;  who  during  the  king's  absence  on  his  expedition 
to  Gijon,  had  arrived  in  the  city  of  Valladolid,  and  was 
there  awaiting  the  celebration  of  the  nuptial  contract. 
To  that  city  the  other  princes  repaired  on  the  cessation  of 
hostilities,  and  the  King  commended  his  bride  to  the 
especial  attention  of  Don  Ht  nry,  Count  of  Trastamare, 
until  his  own  return.  The  Count,  on  his  arrival,  found 
that  the  French  Princess,  of  whose  beauty  and  accom^ 
plishments  the  most  glowing  accounts  had  been  generally 
circulated,  far  surpassed  all  that  rumour  had  spoken,  or 
imajiination  had  portrayed.  She  was  of  a  majestic  figure, 
tall,  and  finely  formed.  The  mild  but  glowing  suns  of 
France  had  given  a  dark  tinge  to  her  che<  ks,  which  well 
matched  with  the  intense  deep  blue  of  her  eyes,  and  the 
jetty  ringlets  whieh  fell  in  rich  clusters  down  her  neck. 
Her  pale  high  forehead  and  drooping  eyelids,  spoke  of 
pensiveness,  and  perhaps  melancholy ;  but  the  smile  which 
frequently  illuminated  all  her  features, 

"  As  though  her  veins  ran  lightning," 

was  full  of  benevolent  sweetness  ;  and  told,  not  falsely, 
the  goodness  of  her  heart.  Her  voice  was  low  and  gentle, 
but  its  tones  went  to  the  heart  of  the  listener ;  and  her 
stately  step,  and  majectic  gait,  while  they  befitted  the 
high  station  which  she  filled,  were  unmingled  with  the 
slightest  indication  of  arrogance,  or  pride. 

As  Don  Hf-nry  gaz«^d  upon  this  enchanting  being,  he 
could  not  but  lament  that  she  was  destined  to  become  the 
bride  of  a  man,  who,  although  of  high  talents,  and  of 
handsome  and  even  majestic  person,  was  stained  with 
almost  every  vice  under  heaven.  Still  he  indulged  a  hope, 
and  that  hope  was  shared  bj  many,  that  the  beauty  and 
virtues  of  the  Princess,  could  not  but  have  a  genial  efiect 
an  the  disposition  of  her  husband,  and  be  productive  of 


172  ORIGINAL 

important  benefits,  both  to  him  and  to  the  nation.  The 
Queen  Mother  had  received  her  with  the  most  flattering 
distinction  ;  the  grandees  in  Valladolid  took  every  oppor- 
tunity of  testifying  their  devotion  ;  and,  whenever  she 
appeared  in  i)ubiic,  she  vi'as  greeted  with  the  warmest 
acclamations  of  the  populace.  Still,  however,  the  King 
remained  at  Torrejos,  in  the  society  of  Maria  de  Padilla  ; 
and  had~not  even  had  the  courtesy  to  send  any  communi- 
cation to  her,  or  to  the  queen.  He  would  not  listen  to 
any  intelligence  of  his  betrothed  bride,  or  even  to  attend 
to  state  affairs.  The  letters  of  his  mother,  expressing  her 
chagrin  and  indignation  at  his  conduct,  and  the  remon- 
strances of  his  minister,  who  represented  the  impolicy  of 
this  treatment  of  a  princess  of  the  blood  royal  of  France, 
were  received  with  equal  disregard.  At  length  his  cour- 
tiers were  constrained  to  be  silent,  for  sonie  of  them  who 
had  ventured  to  speak  their  minds  rather  too  freely  upon 
the  subject,  he  had  found  himself  under  the  awkward 
necessity  of  assassinating.  The  influence  of  Maria  in- 
creased daily  ;  and  to  such  an  extent,  that  it  was  very 
generally  believed  she  had  established  her  dominion  over 
him,  by  practising  the  art  of  magic.  He  caused  a 
tourney  to  be  celebrated  in  her  honour  ;  and  compelled 
all  the  grandees  of  Toledo,  and  in  its  neighbourhood,  with 
their  wives  and  daughters,  to  be  present.  Here  he 
chanced  to  be  so  severely  wounded  in  his  hand,  that  his 
life  was  despaired  of  by  his  [)hysicians  ;  though  after  a 
long  delay,  the  attentirms  and  medical  skill  of  Maria  dc 
Padilla  wrought  his  complete  cure,  to  the  infinite  regret 
of  the  nation,  and  of  the  court,  but  especially  of  Don 
Henry. 

This  Prince  was  indefatigable  in  his  attendance  upon 
the  young  Queen  elect,  and  endeavoured,  by  the  most 
delicate  attentions,  to  console  her  for  the  neglect  of  her 
betrothed  Don  Pedro.  The  Queen  returned  his  attentions 
by  a  gratitude  which  was  expressed  rather  in  her  eyes,  than 
with  her  lips ;  until  at  length  a  more  tender  feeling  by 
degrees  began  to  pervade  the  breasts  of  both ,  although 
they  dared  scarcely  confess  it,  even  to  themselves,  and 
much  less  to  each  other.  Indignation  at  her  atfianced 
husband's  conduct,  and  jtity  for  her  own  forlorn  situation, 
were  no  unnatural  harbingers  of  love  in  the  bosom  of  Don 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC.  17S 

Henry  :  while  Blanche,  as  she  gazed  on  his  fine  person, 
and  thought  of  his  strontr  and  polished  mind  ;  his  military 
renown  ;  and  his  high  birth  ;  for  his  illegitimacy  was 
scarcely  considered  a  stain  in  those  days,  could  not  help 
thinking  huw  suitable  their  union  would  have  been  ;  and 
wishing,  like  Desdemona, — 

"  That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  !" 

% 

These,  however,  were  thoughts,  which  they  carefully 
locked  up  within  their  own  bosoms  and  which  were  soon 
afterward  banif^hed  even  fn.m  those  secret  sanctuaries, 
by  the  unexpected  arrival  of  the  King.  "" 

Don  Pedro  had  at  length  yielded  to  the  advice  of  his 
wisest  counsellors;  which  was  seconded  by  Maria  de 
Padilla  herself;  and  determined  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
Princess  Blanche,  whom,  as  yet,  he  had  not  even  seen. 
The  meeting  of  the  royal  couple  was  in  the  streets  of 
Valladolid,  by  torch-liaht  The  King  entered  the  city  on 
horseback,  attended  b\  Don  Fertlinand,  and  Don  Juan  of 
Arragon,  sons  of  bis  aunt,  the  Queen  Dowager  of  Arra- 
gon  ;  the  Grand  Master  of  Calatrava,  the  Archbishop  of 
Toledo,  Don  Juan  de  la  Cerda,  Dim  Alphonso  d'Albu- 
querque,  and  other  great  lords.  The  young  Queen  rode 
between  the  Queen  Mother  and  the  Count  of  Trastan  are ; 
and  was  attended  by  the  Grand  Master  ol  St  James,  Don 
Tello  of  Castile,  and  the  municipal  authorities  of  Valla- 
dolid. The  streets  were  crowded  with  the  population  of 
the  city,  eager  to  see  the  meeting  ;  but,  above  all,  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  young  Queen,  whose  beauty  was  seen  to 
great  advantage  by  the  light  of  the  innumerable  torches 
which  blazed  aiound  her.  As  she  approached  the  King, 
the  acclauiations  of  the  people  redoubled,  but  they  were 
frozen  into  wondering  silence,  as  they  observed  the  cold 
and  indifferent  air  with  which  he  returned  her  salute. 
She  descended  from  her  :  alfrey,  and  it  was  naturally  ex- 
pected that  he  would  have  done  the  same  ;  but  he  merely 
extended  her  his  hand  to  kiss,  wl.ile  he  contiiiued  in  con- 
versation with  his  minister,  Don  Alj)h'iiiso. 

"The  monster!"  muttered  D 'U   Henry  between  his 
teeth,  as  he  assisted  Blanche  to  remount. 

"Ay,"  whispered  someone  in  his  ear;  "is  this  <he 


174  ORIGINAL 

man  to  be  King  of  Castile,  and  husband  of  Blanche  qi 
Bourbon  1" 

H«^iiry  turned  round,  but  could  perceive  no  one.  His 
own  hear(,  however,  echoed  the  question  ;  and,  silently 
and  moodily,  he  continued  !o  ride  ou,  until  ihe  palace  gates 
appeared  befoie  him,  and  he,  together  with  the  rest  of  the 
procession,  entered. 

The  next  day  was  appointed  for  the  celebration  of  the 
marriage  ceremony,  an<i,  with  the  earliest  dawn  of  morn- 
ing, all  the  bells  in  Valladohd  were  ringing  a  merry  peal ; 
and  the  citizens  appeared  in  the  streets  in  their  holyday 
garbs,  and  wearing  white  favours  in  honour  of  the  event, 
A  pereniptory  order  from  the  King  was,  however,  soon 
issued  for  the  silencing  of  the  bells,  and  comtnanding  every 
one  to  return  to  hi-^  ordinary  o(;cu|>ation,  upon  pain  of 
death.  At  the  hour  of  noon  the  royal  cavalcade  was  seen 
moving  towards  the  Catht  dral,  slo'ly  and  silently  as  a 
funeral  procession.  The  Kinij  wore  a  look  of  dogged  en- 
durance ;  and  Blan*  he  was  pale  as  death  ;  but  there  was 
a  forced  smile  upon  her  lip,  which  apjteared  more  melan- 
choly than  sighs  and  tears  could  [lossibly  have  done.  The 
Queen  Mother's  face  glowed  with  resentment  and  chagrin; 
and  Don  Henry  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Blanche,  with 
an  expression  in  which  pity,  and  a  still  softer  feeling,  could 
be  traced  most  legibly.  The  nobles  who  accompanied 
the  royal  party,  with  heads  depressed,  and  their  arms  folded 
sullenly  upon  their  bosoms,  looked  more  like  mutes  at  an 
interment,  than  assistants  at  a  bridal. 

Notwithstanding  the  ro*  al  mandate,  the  populace  had 
ventured  again  to  assemble  in  the  streets  when  the  pro- 
cession passed ;  but  pale  and  silent,  each  of  them  appeared 
to  feel  that  he  was  committing  a  crime,  and  each  look 
which  was  bent  upon  the  personages  as  (hey  passed,  was 
stealth-like  and  timid.  As  Don  Pedro  rode  by  them, 
every  head  was  bared,  but  not  one  voice  was  heard  in 
gratulation.  The  approach  of  Blanche  was  hailed  with 
loud  acclamations,  which  were,  however,  instantly  sup- 
pressed ;  and  every  one  looked  timidly  over  his  shoulder, 
and  seemed  to  fear  that  he  had  committed  an  offence,  for 
which  instant  punishment  would  follow.  Every  eye  was 
fixed  on  the  Count  of  Trastamare,  and  gleamed  brightlier 
c\s  he  passed ;  but  no  one  dared  to  give  an  open  expression 


TALES,  POEMS,  ETC.  (       l'/5 

to  his  leelings.  One  voire,  however,  which  the  Count 
instantly  recognised  as  the  snnie  wliicli  had  addressed  him 
on  the  preceding  da\,  vvas  lit  aid  to  shciut  tioni  amidst  ihe 
crowd,  "  God  savt    King  Ht  iip)  !" 

All  were  aghast  at  tliis  daring  exclamation.  The 
populace  shrank  back  with  fear  and  horror ;  but  the 
nobles  in  the  procession,  as  soon  as  they  had  recovered 
from  the  stupor  ot  their  surprise,  cried  out  "Tieason! 
treason  !" 

"  Guards,  seize  the  traitor  !"  exclaimed  Don  Alphohso 
d' Albuquerque,  ''and  drug  him  hither." 

A  tall,  stout- built  man,  but  pale  and  squalid,  whh  an 
extraordinary  expression  of  resolution  and  deliance  in  his 
countenance,  was  inunediately  iorc^  d  before  the  King,  on 
whose  left  hand  rode  Don  Alphonso  Don  Pedro's  O'lour 
changed  as  he  gazt-d  upon  him,  but  the  ordinary  malignant 
expression  of  his  ieatures  was  deepened  tenfold  as  he  ex- 
claimed, "  What  do'st  thou  here,  villain  1" 

"  What  do'st  thou  here  ?"  returned  the  unshrinking 
stranger;  "thou  man  of  lust  and  blood  !  with  yond<  r  fair 
and  hapless  Princess  in  thy  train  ?  How  long  is  it  since 
you  tore  my  sister  trom  hei  abode,  the  most  peaceful  and 
the  happiest  in  all  Castile,  to  lodgi  her  in  ihy  vile  harem? 
How  long  is  it  since  th}  steel  drank  the  blood  ol  her  indig- 
nant husband  ?      How  long- ?" 

"  Bind  him  !  gag  him  !"  exclaimed  the  King,  foaming 
with  passion.  "Lend  me  thy  axe,  lellow!"  continued  he, 
vaulting  from  his  horse,  and  snatching  a  partizan  from  a 
guard  near  him.  The  victim  was  immediately  bound,  and 
thrown  upon  the  earth;  when  the  King,  lifting  with  his 
own  hand  the  fatal  weapon,  at  one  blow  severed  his  head 
from  his  botly. 

A  smile  of  grim  delight  played  upon  the  tyrant's  features 
as  he  gazed  uj)on  the  mutiiated  tiunk  before  him  ;  and 
listened  to  the  tearful  shri<  k  which  buist  from  the  assem- 
bled crowd,  who  with  startmg  eyes  and  pallid  cheeks 
stared  upon  each  other,  as  if  to  ask  d  what  they  had  just 
witnessed  was  a  reality.  The  unhappy  Blanche  had 
fainted  in  the  arms  of  her  attendants ;  but  Don  Pedro, 
without  waiting  for  her  recovery,  with  a  yell  of  savage 
laughter  again  sprang  into  his  saddle,  and,  niotioning  to  his 
attendants  to  move  on,  rode  forward   to  the  Cathedral. 


176 


ORIGINAL 


There,  shortly  afterward,  the  bride,  or  rather  the  victhii, 
arrived  more  dead  than  alive  ;  and  joining  her  hand  with 
that  which  was  yet  wet  with  the  blood  wliich  it  had  shed, 
this  ill-omened  marriage  was  solemnized,  amidst  the  fear 
and  wonder  o(  all  who  were  present  at  the  ceremony. 

Three  days  had  elapsed  after  the  nuptials,  and  Don 
Pedro  was  yet  inseparable  from  his  beautiful  Queen  ;  to 
whom,  those  about  him  began  to  hope  that  he  would  be- 
come really  and  permanently  attached  :  but  on  the  third 
he  received  letters  from  Maria  de  Padilla,  who  was  at 
Montalhan,  in  which  she  complained  bitterly  of  his  ab- 
sence from  her,  and  informed  him  that  she  found  herself 
pregnant.  On  receiving  this  intelligence,  the  King's  joy 
knew  no  bounds  ;  and  he  immediately  summoned  his  mi- 
nister, Don  Alphonso,  and  commanded  him  to  prepare  for 
their  immediate  departure  to  join  his  niistress. 

"  Sire,"  said  Don  Alphonso,  "  to  hear  is  to  obey  ;  but 
might  the  humblest  of  your  subjects  venture  to  speak  his 
mind,  he  would  say,  that  if  this  journey  were  postponed 
for  a  short  time,  her  Majesty  would  be  less  likely  to  com- 
plain, and  the  factions  who  pretend  to  espouse  he r  cause, 
would  be  unable  to  find  the  slightest  ground  lor  censuring 
the  conduct  of  your  Majesty." 

"  Peace,  idiot  I"  cried  the  King  furiously  ;  "  have  1  not 
already  devoted  three  days  to  this  Bourbon  doll ;  and  as 
for  the  factions,  are  not  the  poniard,  and  the  gibbet,  and  the 
axe,  enough  for  theml" 

"  Sire,"  continued  the  Minister,  "  is  it  well  to  leave 
Don  Henry  in  the  midst  oi  the  discontented  populace 
of  the  Capital,  while  your  Majesty  is  at  Montalhan? 
Already  do  dreams  of  power  and  sovereignty  fill  his  ima- 
gination, and "  , 

"  What !  dares  the  bastard  look  so  high  as  that?"  said 
Pedro,  with  a  malicious  grin  :  "  well,  well,  his  hour  will 
come,  but  not  yet.  Love  and  Maria  are  all  that  can  en- 
gage my  thoughts  at  present.  See,  then,  that  you  provide 
for  our  instant  journey." 

In  less  than  an  hour  after  this  conversation,  the  king, 
accompanied  by  Don  Alphonso,  and  his  »)ther  immediate 
favourites,  and  attended  by  the  royal  guard,  passed  the 
city  gates  ;  but  as  he  had  taken  no  leave  of  the  Queen,  or 
of  his  Mother,  and  had  given  no  previous  intimation  of  his 


«•" 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC-  177 

intention  to  quit  Valladolid,  it  was  supposed  that  lie  was 
merely  going  to  enjoy  the  chase  in  the  neighbouring  torest. 
Messengers,  however,  speedily  arrived  to  Madanie  d'AI- 
buquerque  from  her  husband,  to  inform  her  that  the  King 
and  he  had  set  off"  for  Montalban,  and  that  they  had 
instructions  to  escort  her  thither.  The  rage  of  the  Queen 
Mother  was  now  ungovernable,  and  she  could  scarcely  be 
restrained  from  rushing  forth  to  the  market-place,  and 
rousing  the  populace.  Don  Henry,  whose  attachment  to 
Blanche  increased  in  the  same  proportion  with  her  hus- 
band's neglect  and  cruelty,  felt  his  bosom  agitated  by  love 
and  indignation.  Still  he  possessed  so  much  of  the 
chivalrous  loyalty  of  those  days,  which  bound  the  subject 
to  his  sovereign,  however  despicable  or  infamous  he  might 
be,  that  be  could  not  persuade  himself  to  encourage  any 
insurrectionary  movement ;  notwithstanding  his  own  per- 
sonal injuries,  and  although  he  knew  that  he  had  but  to 
lift  his  finger,  and  the  whole  population  of  Valladolid 
would  espouse  his  cause.  He,  therefore,  contented  him- 
self by  paying  the  most  delicate  and  respectful  attention 
to  the  young  Queen  ;  and  thus  endeavouring,  as  far  as 
possible,'  to  alleviate  her  neglected  and  forlorn  condition. 
The  people,  also,  now  that  the  expression  of  their  feel- 
ings was  unrestrained  by  the  presence  of  Don  Pedro,  took 
every  opportunity  afforded  them  by  her  appearance  at 
the  windows  of  the  palace,  or  her  riding  out  in  public,  to 
greet  her  with  the  most  cordial  acclamations.  The  King 
in  the  mean  time  continued  at  Montalban,  completely 
fascinated  with  the  attractions  of  Maria  de  Padilla  ;  all 
public  business  was  totally  neglected  by  him  ;  and  al- 
rliough  messenger  after  messenger  arrived  from  Valladolid, 
on  the  most  urgent  state  affairs,  he  could  not  be  per- 
suaded to  return  there,  or  even  to  peruse  the  despatches 
of  which  they  were  the  bearers.  The  Queen  Mother 
re])eatedly  wrote  to  him,  reproacliing  him  with  his  base 
conduct;  and  Don  Alplionso,  his  favourite  minister, 
ceased  not  to  urge  the  otlence  which  he  was  giving  to  his 
subjects  and  to  the  neighbouring  princes,  until  at  length 
he  reluctantly  consented  to  return  to  Valladolid  ;  l)ut  only 
on  the  condition,  that  Maria  de  Padilla  should  accompany 
him,  and  should  be  received  by  the  two  queens  at  court. 
Behold  then  the  Castilian  monarch  once  more  in  his 


178  ORIGINAI^ 

capital,  ov  rather  in  the  city  which  was  then  usually  the 
royal  residence,  and  in  which  the  public  business  was 
transacted.  His  mistress  was  received  with  coldness  and 
distance  by  the  Queen  Mother,  and  witii  irigid  indifference 
by  Blanche.  With  matchless  self-possession  and  effron- 
tery, however,  she  continued  to  appear  at  court ;  where 
the  nobles  thronged  around  her,  as  the  favourite  of  the 
King,  and  her  distinguished  wit  and  beauty  soon  made  theiv 
devotion  no  constraint,  or  at  any  rate,  rendered  their  chains 
very  light  and  easy  to  be  worn.  Among  the  numerous 
grandees  of  Spain,  she  soon  singled  out  Don  Henry  as 
superior  both  in  mind  and  person  to  all  the  others.  Her 
lieart  even  began  to  be  treacherous  to  her  royal  paramour, 
and  she  felt  that  her  affections  were  fixing  themselves 
upon  the  Count  of  Trastamare.  To  her  inexpressible 
chagrin  also,  she  found  that  he  studiously  avoided  paying 
the  slightest  attention  to  her  ;  that  he  was  pensive  and 
fond  of  solitude  ;  and  that  he  was  evidently  a  prey  to  some 
intense  mental  suffering.  A  feeling  of  compassion  ac- 
cordingly mingled  with  the  sentiments  which  she  already 
entertained  towards  him,  and  confirmed  in  her  bosom  the 
existence  of  the  tyrant  passion,  love.  The  difficulty  of 
obtaining  a  private  interview  with  him,  v/sls,  however, 
extremely  great,  as  the  King  required  her  to  be  constantly 
about  his  person  ;  and  the  Count  shunned  her  like  a  pes- 
tilence. Could  she  but  once  acquaint  Don  Henry  with 
her  attachment,  she  could  scarcely  anticipate  the  possi- 
bility of  his  not  returning  it ;  and  even  should  he  refuse, 
she  felt  assured  that  she  could  win  him  to  her  embraces 
by  the  consideration  of  the  precarious  situation  of  himself 
and  his  brothers  ;  who  were  detested  alike  by  the  Queen 
Mother,  and  the  King ;  and  of  the  importance  of  their 
making  a  friend  of  Uer. 

She  had  observed  that^he  Count  was  in  the  habit  of  retir- 
ing to  the  most  solitary  and  unfrequented  parts  of  the  royal 
gardens,  and  resolved,  therefore, one  morning,  to  endeavour 
to  trace  him  to  his  haunts,  and  have  an  explanation  with  him 
on  that  subject  with  which  her  bosom  was  now  incessantly 
haunted.  She  had  traversed  the  grounds  in  all  directions, 
and  began  to  despair  of  succeeding  in  the  object  of  her 
search,  when  at  length  she  arrived  at  a  grotto,  far  out  of 
the  ordinary  route,  and,  entering  it,  perceived  Don  Henry 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC.  '  179 

stretched  upon  the  moss  in  a  tleep  slumber.  His  face  was 
wet  with  tears,  and  even  in  his  sleep  he  heaved  profound 
sighs.  Maria  instantly  conjectured  that  his  malady  was 
love.  "  Perhaps  too,"  thought  she,  "  1  may  be  the  object 
of  it.  Perhaps  the  studious  manuer  in  which  he  avoids 
me,  aud  which  I  have  attributed  to  aversion,  is  only  the 
result  of  his  timidity.  But  alas  !"  she  continued,  sighing, 
"  it  is  too  probable  that  I  have  a  rival ;  and,  if  so,  Maria 
de  Padilla  shall  not  long  be  unavenged."  As  she  spake 
these  words,  the  Count  moved  in  his  sleep  ;  and,  in  turn- 
ing, discovered  some  open  tablets,  upon  which  his  left  arm 
had  rested,  which  Maria  hastily  seized,  and  hurrying  out 
of  the  grotto,  read  in  them  the  following  lines: — 

"  Cease,  cease,  my  heart !  to  nurse  a  hopeless  love  ; 
The  end  of  all  thy  perseverance  lies 
Within  the  orbs  of  two  bright  sparklin|T  c^es  ; 
But  cold  as  they  are  bright.     Nor  canst  thou  move 
One  spark  of  passion  in  that  colder  breast, 
Or  wake  one  hope  that  shall,  'midst  thy  unrest, 
Sing  like  a  sweet  bird  to  my  weary  soul. 

I  dare  not  even  whisper  in  her  ear, 
Whom  I  adore,  the  griefs  that  o'er  me  roll, 

Overwhelming  all  my  peace  ;  yet  still  the  tear 
That  wets  my  lids,  how  sweet  it  is  to  weep 
Such  precious  dew  !     Then  will  I  silence  keep. 
And  strive  to  hide  my  love  even  from  my  heart, 
But  still  flow  on  my  tears,  with  ye  I  cannot  parA." 

The  jealous  suspicions  which  she  had  entertained  were 
now  confirmed,  and  her  whole  frame  shook  with  the  vio- 
lence of  her  emotions.  So  severe  a  respect  as  was  here 
expressed,  could  not  have  reference  to  her.  "  It  is  the 
Queen  !  'tis  Blanche  !"  she  said  ;  and  as  the  hated  idea 
entered  her  mind,  it  wrung  it  almost  to  madness.  "  That 
Bourbon  serpent  crosses  my  path  at  every  step  !  Through 
her  the  people  hate  me  !  Her  beauty,  the  dull,  tame 
beauty  of  France,  attracts  the  courtiers  from  me.  AV^ith 
difhculty  have  I  won  the  wittol  King  from  her;  and  now, 
where  my  very  heart  is  treasured  up,  she  has  coiled  herself 
around  its  tendcrest  fibres."  Having  carefully  copied  out 
the  verses,  she  then  erased  ihcm,  and,  in  a  feigned  hand, 
■'vrote  the  following  in  their  place  ; —  , 


fSy  UUiaiNAL 


"  ORACLE. 


It  is  permitted  to  tlice  to  sigli,  and  to  love,  and  to  hope  5;- 

To  act,  and  to  l)reak  the  seal  of  silence. 

Be  in  no  fear  either  of  a  sceptre,  or  of  rivals. 

INIy  heart,  one  worthy  of  thee,  is  interested  in  thy  woes-: 

Behold,  then,  the  reward  of  perseverance  !" 

After  this  she  returned  to  the  grotto,  and  meeting  no 
one  there,  replaced  the  tablets  where  she  had  found  them. 

In  the  meantime,  Don  Henry  on  awakening  had  missetJ 
his  treasure,  and  was  much  disconcerted  in  consequence- 
He  made  a  careful  search,  but,  of  course,  his  search  was 
unavailing.  He  inquired  of  the  gardeners,  if  they  had 
seen  any  person  enter,  but  they  all  replied  in  the  negative. 
He  then  retired  in  great  dismay  to  his  chamber,  and  was 
wot  seen  again  till  the  evening  ;  when  he  once  more  pro- 
ceeded to  his  favourite  haunt,  and  was  agreeably  surprised 
to  find  his  tablets  in  the  place  in  which  he  had  lost  them. 
He  opened,  and,  scarcely  believing  his  eyes,  read  the 
Oracle  which  Maria  de  Padilla  had  written  in  them.  At 
first  he  v/as  transported  with  joy,  for  he  hoped  that  what 
he  read  had  been  written  by  the  Queen ;  but  as  he  reflected 
more  calmly,  the  improbability  of  such  an  idea  impressed 
itself  so  strongly  upon  him,  that  he  dismissed  it  altogether 
from  his  mind.  It  was  evident,  however,  that  the  pre- 
cious secret  of  his  heart  was  in  the  possession  of  another, 
who  might  make  some  pernicious  use  of  it ;  and  as  he 
laid  his  head  upon  his  pillow  that  night,  his  bosom  was 
distracted  by  a  variety  of  painful  emotions. 

The  next  day  the  Queen  Mother  held  a  court,  and  Don 
Henry,  as  he  was  proceeding  to  it  along  the  palace  corri- 
dors, met  queen  Blanche  coming  out  of  her  apartments, 
and  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  an  esquire.  He  inmiediately 
offered  her  his  own,  which  she  accepted  with  the  utmost 
frankness,  and  the  page  submissively  gave  way.  As  they 
entered  in  the  royal  presence,  Henry  could  not  prevent 
the  joy  of  his  heart  from  manifesting  itself  in  his  face,  and 
having  seated  Blanche  beside  the  Queen  Mother,  he  took 
Ijis  station  behind  her  chair.  The  whole  court  rose  on  the 
entrance  of  Queen  BlanchCjexcepting  the  King, who  mani- 


TALES',  POKMS,  ETC.  181 

iested  some  displeasure  at  the  rising  of  Maria  de  Padilla, 
who  was  seated  next  him.  The  latter  did  not  fail  to  ob- 
serve the  delight  which  Ilenry  evinced,  as  he  entered  with 
his  lovely  escort,  and  whispered  to  the  King,  as  sl)e  glanced 
towards  Blanche  and  Henry,  "  these  two  |.ersons  appear 
to  be  on  a  remarkabl)  good  understanding  with  each 
other,  my  liege.  The  Count  of  Trastamure  appears  to 
hold  a  very  high  place  in  her  majesty's  esteem." 

"Very  possibly,"  answered  the  King;  "but  the  par- 
tizans  of  her  immaculate  virtue  would  institute  a  process 
against  us  for  daring  to  hold  a  doubt  of  its  most  perfect 
purity." 

"  I  should  be  rather  difficult  to  convince,  nevertheless," 
replied  Maria.  "  The  French  ladies  are,  as  every  one 
knows,  not  only  liberal,  but  even  prodigal,  when  they 
would  secure  a  suiter.  But  you  do  not  exhibit  any  symp- 
toms of  jealousy." 

"  I  should  exhibit  enough  of  them,"  interrupted  Don 
Pedro,  "if  Henry  were  enamoured  of  7/om;  but  my  heart 
takes  so  little  interest  either  in  the  actions,  or  the  feelings,, 
of  Blanche  de  Bourbon,  that  it  is  out  of  her  power  to  dis- 
turb my  peace  of  mind  for  a  moment." 

While  the  king  and  his  mistress  were  thus  conversing^ 
the  whole  court  were  astonished  at  the  assurance  and  self- 
possession  of  Maria  de  Padilla,  who  appeared  to  consider 
herself  as  the  most  distinguished  female  present,  and  took 
not  the  slightest  notice  of  Queen  Blanche,  after  having  at 
first  risen  upon  her  entrance.  The  two  Queens  were,  how- 
ever, engaged  with  each  other,  and  seemed  not  to  regard 
either  the  neglect  of  Don  Pedro,  oi  the  assumption  of  his 
paramour.  The  Count  of  Trastamare,  in  the  mean  time, 
was  hardly  able  to  restrain  an  open  explosion  of  his  anger 
and  indignation ;  and  the  practised  eye  ot  Mai  ia,  who  con- 
tinued narrowly  to  observe  him,  easily  detected  the  real 
state  of  his  feelings.  The  King,  at  length  weary  of  the 
restraint  and  formality  to  which  he  found  himself  obliged 
to  submit,  arose,  and  taking  no  other  notice  ol"  Blanche, 
beyond  coldly  .saluting  her  as  he  past,  left  the  court,  fol- 
lowed by  his  immediate  retainers.  Maria,  [)artly  out  of 
regard  for  a  decorous  appearance,  and  partly  from  the 
])leasure  which  she  experienced  in  being  in  the  presence 
of  Don  Henry,  remained    lor   a  few  moments,  in   tlu^ 


i82  ORIGINAL 

seat  wliich  she  had  occupied,  and  then  also  lollowcd  the 
kin;?. 

Don  Henry  still  stood  behind  the  chair  of  Blanches 
and  as  her  brutal  husband  passed  her  in  the  manner  in 
which  we  have  described,  he  gave  utterance  to  a  deep 
drawn  sigh. 

"  You  are  in  love,  my  lord,"  said  the  Queen,  turning- 
round  to  him,  and  smiling. 

"I  am  so,  indeed,  madam,''  replied  Henry;  "my  respect 
for  your  majesty  will  not  allow  me  to  disavow  it,  but  my 
affection  is  mingled  with  anger." 

"  You  are  then,"  added  Blanche,  "  more  unhappy  than 
i  had  supposed  ;  for  you  are  also  jealous." 

"Alas  !  no,  madam  ;  I  am  so  far  from  jealousy,  that  my 
anger  is  excited,  because  others  do  not  pay  to  the  object 
of  my  love  the  attentions  and  respect  which  are  due  to 
matchless  beauty,  and  unequalled  virtue." 

As  he  uttered  these  last  words,  he  seized  her  hand,  and 
kissed  it  fervently.  She  withdrew  it  silently,  but  her  heart 
too  well  understood  his  meaning,  and  she  sighed  deeply, 
as  she  compared  the  handsome  and  accomplished  Prince 
who  knelt  before  her,  with  the  man  with  whose  destiny  her 
own  was  so  indissolubly  united. 

"  Your  majesty  also  sighs,"  said  Henry. 
"  Few  persons  are  exempt  from  some  sorrow,"  returned 
the  Queen ;  and  she  sighed  still  more  deeply. 

"  True,  madam,"  said  the  Count ;  "  and  your  majesty 
finds  cause  enough  in  the  cruel  and  injurious  treatment  of 
the  King." 

"  Nay,"  said  Blanche,  "  his  majesty,  unkind  as  he  ap- 
pears, has  doubtless  ample  reasons  for  his  conduct.  Some 
strange  fault  of  mine  must  be  apparent  to  him,  which  my 
ignorance  has  not  yet  discovered  to  myself." 

"  Say  not  so,  sweet  lady,"  replied  Henry;  "he  can  see 
nothing  in  you  but  goodness.  Where  is  the  wonder  that  a 
monster  should  be  the  enemy  of  beauty  ?" 

"  How  can  you  call  him  an  enemy  of  beauty,"  asked 
the  Queen,  "when  you  look  upon  Maria  de  Padilla?  but  i 
entreat  you,  sir,  let  us  close  this  conversation,  which  has 
already  proceeded  too  far." 

Thus  saying,  the  Queen  rose,  and  left  the  presence 
chamber :  when  the  whole  court  followed  her  example  ■ 


TALES,  FOEJIS,  ETC.  ISH 

and  Blanche  proceeded,  accompanied  by  a  young  French 
lady,  named  Adelaide  de  Montauban,  who  was  much  in 
her  coniidence,  to  take  her  accustomed  walk  in  the  royal 
gardens.  To  Adelaide  she  had  already  confessed  that  she 
felt  a  more  than  ordinary  interest  for  the  Count  of  Tras- 
tamare,  and  that  she  considered  him  the  noblest  and  most 
accom'jjished  cavalier  at  the  Castilian  court ;  and  she  now 
related  to  her  the  conversation  which  had  recently  passed 
between  them,  and  her  consequent  uneasiness. 

•'  The  Count,  madam,"  returned  Adelaide,  "  is  doubt- 
less enamoured  of  your  majesty.  His  conduct  towards 
you  has  long  convinced  me  of  it ;  and  if  you  have  not  ob- 
served it,  I  am  persuaded  that  Maria  de  Padilla  has  not 
been  so  blind.  Her  watchful  eye  is  ever  upon  him,  or 
upon  your  majesty,  and  the  expression  sometimes  of 
envy,  and  sometimes  of  malignity,  in  her  countenance, 
shows  that  she  takes  a  more  than  ordinary  interest  in  the 
affair." 

"  I  have  felt  her  basilisk  glance  upon  me,"  said  the 
Queen,  "  more  frequently  than  I  desired.  But  hark  !  what 
noise  is  that  V 

The  interesting  nature  of  their  conversation  had  led 
them  much  beyond  their  usual  walk,  and  as    they  ap 
preached  the  grotto,  which  has  been  already  mentioned, 
they  heard  voices  in  earnest  conversation. 

"  Nay,"  said  a  voice,  wiiich  they  immediately  recognised 
to  be  that  of  the  Grand  Master  of  St.  James,  the  brother 
of  Don  Henry,  "  wherefort;  deny  a  fact  so  apparent  to  all  ? 
What  else  mean  this  abstracted  carriage,  these  solitary 
rambles,  these  sighs,  and  even  tears  1  this  refraining  from 
all  puisuits  consistent  with  your  age,  and  character,  and 
rank  V 

*'  And  are  not,"  said  Don  Henry,  "  the  load  of  ills  with 
which  Castile  is  distracted,  and  the  injurious  treatment 
witli  which  our  house  is  overwhelmed,  sufficient  to  account 
for  all  this  ?  Can  I  mix  in  the  follies  and  frivolities  of  the 
court  of  Valladolid,  while  my  heart  is  bleeding  with  the 
wounds  of  my  country,  and  with  its  own  ?" 

"Alas!  my  brother,"  replied  the  grand  master,  "the 
injuries  of  Castile,  and  of  our  house,  are  of  a  much  more 
ancient  date  than  this  change  in  your  behaviour.  When 
you  first  became  aware  of  them,  they  work<'d  very  differ- 


IS4  omGiNAi, 

ent  effects  upou  you,  from  those  which  I  now  behold. 
Then  you  were  tlie  Hon  roused  from  his  lair  ;  now  you  are 
the  sloth  shrinUiuj^  to  its  hiding-place.  You  are  in  love, 
Henry,  and  Queen  Jilanche  is  tlie  object  of  your  misguided 
passion." 

"  You  hive  probed  me  to  the  heart,"  exclaimed  Don 
Henry,  "  and  extracted  iVom  it  the  secret  which  I  thought 
hidden  in  its  deepest  recesses." 

The  Queen  now  listened  with  the  most  intense  and  pain- 
ful interest,  hut  the  voices  grew  faint  and  indistinct,  and 
were  soon  lost  in  the  distance. 

"Unhappy  that  I  am  !"  she  cried,  "hated  where  I  ex- 
pected to  be  beloved  ;  and  beloved  where  love  is  crime, 
and  the  parent  not  of  delight,  but  of  danger,  and  misery, 
and  guilt.  Oh  !  that  we  were  once  more  in  our  own 
sweet  France,  Adelaide  !  where  hearts  are  happy  as  the 
skies  are  genial.  Where  no  torrid  clime  like  this  mingles 
pestilence  with  its  grandeur,  and  poison  with  its  beauty ; 
where  the  suns  scorch  not  while  they  warm  ;  and  where 
hearts  are  the  nurseries  of  feelings,  fervent  and  passionate 
as  those  that  exist  here,  but  unmixed  with  cruelty,  and  un- 
stained with  sorrow,  or  with  crime." 

By  this  time  all  the  persons  of  whom  this  narrative  treats 
had  nearly  come  to  an  eclaircissement  with  each  other ; 
excepting  that  Maria  de  Padilla  had  not  yet  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  fully  explaining  to  the  Count  of  Trastamare  the 
sentiments  which  she  entertained  towards  hint.  That 
opportunity  was,  however,  very  soon  afterward  afforded 
her,  on  the  occasion  ot  the  marriage  of  his  brother  Don 
Tello,  the  lord  of  Aguila,  with  the  beautiful  Donna  Joanna 
de  Lara,  heiress  to  the  Signiory  of  Biscay. 

As  all  the  nobility  of  Valladolid  were  to  be  present  at 
the  solemnization  of  this  marriage,  and  the  entertainment 
which  followed,  Don  Pedro,  much  as  he  hated  all  his 
brothers,  was  constrained,  out  of  policy,  and  in  order  to 
preserve  an  appearance  of  cordiality  and  reconciliation, 
to  show  himself  at  the  nuptial  feast;  although  he,  as  usual, 
stipulated  for  the  presence  of  Muria  de  Padilla  also.  Don 
Henry  was,  of  course,  of  the  party;  but  he  continued  to 
wear  that  look  of  abstraction  and  melancholy,  for  which 
he  had  lately  become  remarkable ;  but  his  brother,  the 
.grand  master,  had  told  him  that  his  every  look  and  action 


TALES,  rOEMS,  ETC.  Ivj5 

v/eie  minutely  watched  by  Maria,  and  had,  thereibre,  con- 
jured him  not  to  keep  his  eyes  so  constantly  fixed  upon 
the  Queen.  Thus  cautioned,  he  withdrew  them  from  the 
object  of  his  affection,  and  fixed  them  upon  the  ground. 
After  the  banquet,  tlie  party  diviJed  into  numerous  groups ; 
and,  of  the  more  distinguished  personages  present,  Don 
Pedro  attached  himself  to  the  Queen  Mother ;  Blanche 
conversed  with  the  young  biide;  the  bridegroom  and  Don 
Alphonso  d'Albuquerque  were  engaged  in  close  conversa- 
tion with  each  othei" ;  and  Don  Henry  found  himself 
obliged  to  S!  bmit  to  the  advances  of  Maria  de  Padilla. 

"  Count  of  Trastamare,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  it  belongs 
neither  to  your  rank,  nor  to  your  age  to  appear  to  be  thus 
abstracted  and  pensive  in  so  distinguished  an  assembly  ; 
and  i^  y OUT  perseverance  proposes  to  itself  no  other  end,  it 
appears  to  me  to  be  but  to  little  purpose.  Is  it  of  the 
earth  on  which  we  tread  that  you  are  enamoured  1  It 
seems  that  you  cannot  prevail  upon  yourself  to  look  upon 
any  thing  else,  and  because  that  is  mute,  1  suppose  you 
have  vowed  to  be  so  also." 

Maria  was  the  object  of  Don  Henry's  unmixed  hatred 
and  contempt,  and  but  for  the  words  perseverance  and  end, 
which  she  had  used  in  the  course  of  her  address  to  him, 
and  which  he  instantly  recognised  as  having  been  con- 
tained in  the  verses  which  he  had  lost,  he  would  not  have 
deigned  her  an  answer.  His  curiosity,  however,  as  well  as 
his  fears,  was  roused,  and  he  replied, — "If  I  am  amorous 
of  the  earth,  fair  lady,  then  have  I  as  many  rivals  as  there 
are  kingdoms  and  provinces,  and  all  the  heroes  who  exist 
dispute  her  favours  with  me  :  what  wonder,  therefore,  is 
it  that  I  am  sad  V 

"Then,"  returned  Maria,  "you  should  address  your 
vows  to  objects  where  you  would  meet  with  no  competi- 
tion, and  where  they  would  be  favourably  received.  Have 
you  any  difficulty  in  explaining  the  Oracle,  or  must  I  in- 
terpret for  you  1" 

"  Madam,"  answered  the  Count,  "  we  have  discon- 
tinued the  customs  of  antiquity,  and  I  know  not  that 
vou  would  be  a  just  interpreter  of  the  decrees  of  hea- 
ven." 

"  It  is  only  of  the  decrees  of  love  that  I  would  speak," 
replied  Maria  ;  "  and  if  I  were  to  interpret  them  to  you 

Aa 


186  ORIGINAL 

HOW,  perlKtps  it  would  not  bo  for  the  first  time,  hfhoid," 
she  added,  giviiiij  him  tlie  verses  which  slie  had  copied  from 
his  tablets,  "  ami  tell  me  whether  a  heart  which  can  thus 
express  itself  staiuls  in  need  of  consolation  ?" 

The  terrible  words  which  Diinte  read  upon  the  gates  of 
Hell  could  scarcely  have  excited  a  stronger  agitation,  than 
that  which  Henry  felt  at  beholding  his  sonnet  in  the  hands 
of  this  artful  and  malignatit  woman.  Fear,  scorn,  and 
indignation  took  by  turns  possession  of  his  bosom.  His 
own  sitiiati  )n  and  that  uf  his  brothers  was  sufliciently 
insecure  at  the  court  of  a  cruel  and  treacherous  tyrant, 
under  the  domination  of  such  a  woman  ;  and  to  this 
was  now  added  the  peril  to  which  he  had  exposed  the 
Queen,  by  placing  her  in  the  power  of  her  bitterest 
enemy. 

Maria  perceived  his  agitation  and  exclaimed, — "You 
fear  me,  and  you  have  reason  so  to  do ;  because  I  can 
make  a  very  dlti'erent  use  of  your  secret  from  that  which 
I  would  wish.  Although  1  aui  not  indebted  to  you  for  my 
knowledge  of  that  secret,  yet  will  1  put  you  in  possession 
of  my  own  ;  leaving  the  opjjosition  of  scruples  to  common 
minds.  What  can  you  hope  from  the  sentiments  which 
yon  entertain  for  Blanche  of  Bourbon  1  Think  you  that 
after  discovering  my  own  passion,  1  will  suffer  you  to  in- 
dulge yours  with  nnpunity  ?  Speak  then,  Don  Henry,  is 
my  love  returned?  or,  are  we  henceforth  mortal  enenjies? 
for,  after  the  pangs  which  this  avowal  costs  me,  1  will  ac- 
cept of  only  love  or  enmity  !" 

That  it  had  cost  her  mu(di  was  evident,  from  her  tone 
and  manner  ;  for,  while  she  spake,  even  the  unabashed 
front  of  Maria  de  Padilla  was  suffused  with  a  crimson  hue, 
Her  voice  faltered  ;  her  head  drooped  ;  and  the  moisture 
in  her  eyes  tor  once  attested  the  sincerity  of  her  expres- 
sions. The  Count  was  also  sufficiently  agitated.  With  ail 
her  beauty,  and  all  her  talents,  he  could  not  surmount  the 
indignation  and  contempt  in  which  he  held  her  :  and  even 
that  beauty,  and  those  talents,  suffeied,  in  his  mind,  in 
comparison  with  those  of  the  Queen.  The  idea,  too,  that 
he  had  exposed  the  latter  to  the  malignity  of  her  rival, 
overwhelmed  him  with  teiror. 

"  1  confess,  madam,"  at  length  he  answered,  "  that  I 
am  the  author  of  those  love  verses  to  which  you  replied 


TALES,  POEMS,  ETC.  187 

by  an  oracle  :  but  what  does  tliat  fact  prove  further,  than 
that  I  have  an  inclination  for  poetry  1  III  were  in  love 
with  the  queen,  sliould  I  be  insane  enOLi«rh  to  discover  it 
•o  rashl\  ?  The  sentiments  towards  me  which  you  have 
with  so  much  deUcacy  avoweil,  bind  me  vouf  grateful  slave 
forever.  You  are  beautiful  enough  to  drive  a  man  of  my 
age  mad  with  ecstacy.  But  I  must  preserve,  for  !  have 
reason  enough  so  to  do,  the  respect  which  I  owe  the  kinsr, 
and " 

"You  would  lose  it  with  all  your  heart,''  said  Maria, 
interrupting  him,  "if  the  queen  asked  you.  I  love  you, 
to  my  misfortune.  Take  care  that  you  do  not  love  her  to 
her  misfortune,  and  your  own.  None  speak  as  1  have 
spoken,  until  their  resolves  are  fully  made.  Remember 
that  it  is  dangerous  to  make  me  suffer;  and  that  I  am  not 
of  the  humour  to  let  my  blushes  be  seen  and  despised  with 
impunity," 

Thus  saying,  she  walked  away  without  waiting  for  his 
answer,  and  entered  into  conversation  with  Madame 
d'Albuquerque.  The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  off 
gloomil)  and  heavily.  The  king  sat  mute  and  motionless; 
the  queen,  after  vaiidy  endeavouring  to  rally  her  spirits, 
sank  at  last  into  that  listless  melancholy  which  the  pre- 
sence of  Don  Pedro  always  inspired  ;  and  the  Count 
relapsed  into  his  usual  abstractedness  and  silence,  from 
which  he  was  only  roused  by  the  bieaking  up  of  the  party. 

That  night  a  thousand  agitated  feelitiirs  of  love,  jealousy, 
anger,  and  mortified  pride,  haunted  the  bosom  of  Maria  de 
Padilla.  She  had  stooped  to  solicit  the  affection  of  Don 
Henry,  and  her  suit  had  been  rejected.  Sometimes  she 
meditated  his  death,  and  she  knew  that  she  could  procure 
it  easily.  She  had  but  to  hint  such  a  wish  to  her  royal 
lover,  who  then  slumbered  by  her  side,  and  the  Count  of 
Trastamare  would  be  spleedily  numbered  with  those  who 
were.  Then  again  all  her  love  for  him  rushed  upon  her 
heart,  and  the  idea  which  she  had  conceived  but  a  moment 
before,  was  rejected  with  horror.  Tiien  the  hated  image 
of  Blanche  of  Bourbon  would  occupy  her  nund  :  that 
double  rival,  with  charms  and  graces  at  least  equal  to  her 
own  ;  and  with  virtues  which  won  for  her  the  benedictions 
and  esteem  of  all.  "  That  serpent  must  be  crushed,"  said 
she  ;  "  and  who  dare  do  it,  it  not  1  ?     Yet,  yet,"  she  added, 


188  ORIGINAL 

as  something  of  woman's  softness  mingled  with  her  hate 
and  jealousy,  "  even  she  mi  ,ht  be  spared,  could  but  Henry 
be  weaned  from  her.  I  must  see  and  speak  to  him  on 
that  subject  once  again ;  and  should  he  still  continue 
obstinate,  let  thf  bolt  fall !" 

Thoughts  like  these  so  occupied  her  mind  during  the 
whole  of  the  night,  as  to  chase  away  all  slumber  from  her 
ey«  lids ;  and  soon  after  daybreak  she  rose  to  seek  the 
grotto  in  which  she  had  before  discovered  Don  Henry; 
resolved,  should  she  again  find  him  there,  to  obtain  an 
explicit  declaration.  Leaving  the  king  still  slumbering, 
she  descended  to  the  gardens  ;  yet  though  the  sun  had 
not  long  ristn,  an<l  the  night  dews  were  still  thick  upon 
the  ground  :  when  she  arrived  at  the  grott  ■  she  found  that 
some  persons  were  there  bef.re  her,  and  h*  ard  voices  in 
earnest  conversation.  As  she  approached  near  enough  to 
be  a')le  to  see  who  they  were,  she  was  astounded  to 
behold  Q,  leen  Blanche,  and  Don  Henry  on  his  knees, 
before  her;  and  to  hear  the  Count  exclaim,  as  he  seized 
her  hand  and  kissed  if  rapturously,  "  Fly,  dearest  madam  ! 
fly  from  a  cruel  tyrant,  who  hates  you  ;  and  a  malignant 
rival,  who  is  plotting  your  destruction  !" 

At  that  moment  the  df^mons  of  jealousy  and  hatred 
took  full  possession  of  the  soul  of  Maria  de  Padilla;  and, 
as  she  gasped  for  breath,  she  was  obliged  to  lean  against 
a  tree,  to  support  herself  fiom  falling.  As  soon,  however, 
as  she  recovered  her  bodily  strength,  she  did  not  hesitate 
for  an  instant  as  to  the  course  which  she  should  pursue, 
but  swiftly  and  silentl\  retracing  her  steps  to  the  chamber 
of  the  slumbering  Knig,  she  there  shrieked  out,  "Awake, 
Don  Pedro  !  King  of  Castile,  awake  !  Treason  and  dis- 
honour are  in  thy  palace  !      Awake  I  awake  !" 

The  King  started  from  his  sleep,  and  seizing  a  dagger 
which  always  hung  beside  him,  stan  d  wildly  in  the  direc- 
tion whence  the  voice  proceeded  ;  "  Ha  !  my  sweet 
Maria  !  said  he,  as  a  smile  succeeded  the  scowl  upon  his 
brow,  when  he  perceived  by  whom  his  slumber  had  been 
disturbed,  "  is  it  thou  1  'twas  but  a  hideous  dream  then. 
Methought  I  lay,  powerless  and  helpless,  upon  the  earth, 
while  the  accursed  Henry  stood  above  me  with  a  naked 
sword,  which  Blanche  of  Bourbon  directed  to  my  heart. 
I  had  no  power  to  stir,  but  felt  his  fatal  steel  drinking  my 


TALES,    POEMS,   ETC.  189 

life  blood,  when  tby  sweet  voice  awoke  me.     It  was  a  silly 
dream,  love  !  but " 

"  Y  'ur  dream  was  true,  my  liege,"  replied  Maria,  inter- 
rupting him;  "arise,  and  I  will  show  you  its  interpreta- 
tion." 

Hastily  throwing  a  loose  robe  round  bim,  and  seizing 
his  sword,  the  King  accompanied  Maria  into  the  gardens  ; 
and  two  solditisof  the  royal  guard,  whom  lie  hastily  sum- 
moned, Ibllowed  them.  They  were  not  long  in  reacbmg 
the  grotto,  near  which,  listening  with  lowering  brows,  and 
beating  hearts,  to  the  conversation  within,  we  must  for  a 
moment  leave  th<^  monarch  and  his  paramour. 

Don  Henry  ha'i,  on  the  previous  evening,  left  his 
brother's  nuMtial  feast,  full  of  soirowtcl  lorebodingf.  He 
had  discovered  that  th^-  most  precious  secret  of  his  heart 
was  in  the  poss;  ssi'-n  of  one,  who  of  all  others  had  equally 
the  inclination  and  the  power  to  make  a  dangerous  use  of 
it.  He  felt  the  slippery  and  danger*. us  ground  on  which 
he  stood,  at  the  cuurt  of  a  cruel  and  treacherous  prince 
like  Pedro  ;  and  that  his  personal  safet)  could  only  be 
secured  by  instant  flight.  Still  tie  could  not  leave  the 
Queen  exposed  to  so  many  dangers  ;  sinc^  he  well  knew 
her  life  was  unsafe  in  the  Iceeping  of  her  husbnnd  and  of 
Maria  ;  especially  exasperated  as  the  latter  would  feel  at 
his  rejection,  and  his  departure.  As  these  thoughts  cross- 
ed his  mi.d,  Adelaide  tie  Montalban  passed  him  in  the 
great  corridor  of  the  palace,  and  he  at  once  unfolded  to 
her  the  enmity  of  Maiia,  and  the  danger  of  her  mistress. 

"  Alas,"  sail!  Adelaide,  *'  (he  goo(^  Queen  ai  d  I  have 
long,  long  been  convinced  that  her  heart  is  full  of  hatred 
and  treachery  towards  her.  But  whither  can  she  fly  1 
how  can  she  save  herself?" 

"  Beg  the  Queen,"  said  he,  "  to  grant  me  but  half  an 
hour's  conversation  to-morrow,  at  the  silver  grotto,  at  sun- 
rise ;  for  it  is  too  hazardous  to  speak  to  her  for  a  moment 
when  this  she-devil,  or  her  spies,  are  watching  every  move- 
ment. The  hour  and  place  I  have  named  will  secure  us 
from  interruption,  and  1  may  then  be  able  ttj  propose 
some  mode  of  rescuing  her  majesty  from  the  i  erils  which 
suriuund  her.  Piomise  me  that  you  will  propose  this  to 
her." 

"  I  promise  you  faithfully,  my  lord."  said  Adelaide. 


190  ORIGINAL 

"Then,  fare  thee  well,  pretty  maiden,"  added  Henry j 
"  for  this  conference  has  alread)  lasted  long  enough  for 
our  safety." 

The  next  morning  saw  the  Count  de  Tiasfatnare  at  the 
rendezvous  a  the  hour  appnititrd  ;  and  he  had  not  long 
to  wait  the  arrival  of  Q  ^ii-u  Blanche. 

"  Count,"  said  the  Queen,  '•  b«fore  we  communicate 
farther  with  each  other,  let  nie  exa''t  a  promise  from  you, 
that,  not  now,  nor  ever,  shall  I  hear  from  you  any  decla- 
ration of  such  a  passion  as  that  which  you  rashly  hinted  at 
in  our  last  conversation;  and  the  indulgence  of  which, 
the  laws  of  G  >d  and  mnn  alike  prohibit." 

"  I  own  my  fault  Madam  !"  said  Don  Henry,  "  and 
entreat  your  pardon  for  the  inconsidetarion  and  rashness 
of  my  conduct.  My  heart  was  full,  and  the  conduct  of 
D.)n  Pedro  towards  )Our  Majesty  stirred  it  to  overflowing. 
But  I  readil)  promise  all  that  you  can  -lemand  ;  you  shall 
perceive  nothing  in  my  conduct  towards  you,  but  the  most 
respectful  deference,  and  the  warmest  solicitude  for  your 
welfare.  My  purpose  in  soliciting  this  interview,  is  to 
warn  you  that  your  life  is  in  dang  r,  and  'o  point  out  to 
you  the  propriety  of  seeknig  saleiy  b\  iuimediate  flight." 

*'  I  know  too  well,'*  she  replied,  "  how  precarious  is 
my  situation  among  the  hollow  hearts,  and  hlood-stained 
hands,  which  crowd  this  Couri  ;  but  what  new  cause  of 
alarm  have  you  discovered  ?" 

"  Alas,  Madam  !  your  bitt  rest  foe  has  not  only  made 
me  a  tender  of  her  atlections,  which  I  rejected  with  scorn  ; 
but  she  has  also  discovered  the  iaial  passion  which  already 
occupied  my  heart,  and  has,  in  no  equivocal  terms,  in- 
formed me,  that  your  Majesty's  life  is  in  her  hands,  and 
threatened  to  exercise  the  povver  which  she  possesses." 

"Alas!  alas  !"  said  the  Queen,  "guiltless  as  I  know 
myself,  how  am  I  environed  with  dangers  through  the 
crimes,  and  the  indiscrttions  of  others  !  How  am  I  to 
save  myself !  Long  since  would  I  have  taken  shelter  at 
my  father's  court,  but  that  I  had  no  means  of  escaping 
thither." 

"  Then  listen  to  me.  Madam,"  said  the  Count.  "  My 
brother,  Don  Tello,  will  this  day  depart  with  his  suite  to 
take  possession  of  the  Signiory  of  Biscay.  Your  Majesty 
may  take  your  accustomed  ride  in  the  forest  at  the  hour 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC  191 

at  which  he  passes  through  it,  and  then  join  his  escort ; 
where  I  can  ensure  jou  a  hearty  welcome.  The  King 
concerns  himselt  so  little  al  out  }our  niovtnients,  that 
before  your  tlight  ran  be  diiscovt  red,  you  will  be  beyond 
the  reach  ol  pursuit.  Ai lived  in  tiie  territories  ol  my 
brother,  the  power  of  Don  Pedro  may  b(  defied,  and 
measures  easily  concerted  lor  sending  your  Majesty  to  the 
Court  of  France." 

"Dangers  and  ditficidties  attend  your  plan,  Count," 
said  the  Queen,  "  but  despair  has  seldom  any  alternative 
but  a  choice  of  evils  ;  and  I  confess  that  I  cannot  dis- 
cover any  better  mo-.le  of  eiiecting  my  escape  from  the 
evils  which  surround  me,  than  by  the  path  which }ou  have 
pointed  out." 

"  Then,"  said  Don  Henry,  falling  on  his  knees,  and 
pressing  her  ha;  d  to  his  lips,  "  do  noi  hesitate  to  pursue 
that  path  which  will  lead  }ou  to  peace  and  safety. 
Fly,  dearest  Madam  !  lly  from  a  cruel  tyrant,  who  hates 
you  ;  and  a  malignant  rival  who  is  plotting  your  de- 
struction !" 

As  he  uttered  this,  a  slight  rustling  was  heard  among 
the  foliage  which  concealed  the  entrance  to  the  grotto. 
It  was  Maria  de  Padilla,  who  started  when  she  heard  the 
words  with  which  the  Count  concluded,  and  had  nearly 
discovered  herseK  as  she  retieated.  All,  however,  was  in 
an  instant  perfect!}  tranquil  ;  for  with  noiseless  tread,  and 
a  heart  which,  although  nearly  bursting  with  the  violence 
of  itis  emotions,  she  scarcely  peimiited  to  beat,  lest  even 
its  throbbing  should  become  audible,  she  had  stolen  away 
to  apprise  the  King  ol'  her  discoveiy. 

"  Our  untimely  meeting,  Count,"  said  the  Queen,  "  has 
staith  d  even  the  leatlier«d  race  fiom  their  nests  among 
the  bu^ll<  s.  As  to  the  plan  which  you  have  devised  lor 
me,  1  will  venture  to  pui>ue  it,  coine  what,  come  may  ; 
it  may  perhaps  had,  as  jou  pn.mise  me,  to  safety,  but  to 
peace,  never  !  That  is  a  w<>rd  which  hereafter  riiiy 
sound  in  the  ear  ol  Blanche  ol  Bouibon,  but  to  which  her 
heart  must  ever  he  a  .stranger.'' 

A  deadlier  paleness  spread  over  the  v/an  features  of  the 
Queen,  as  she  uttered  tliese  words,  and  tears,  not  profns^ 
and  flowing, — 


192  OKIUINAI. 

"  Tlie  heart's  gentlest  waters, 
Lightening  the  fount  they  flow'd  from  ;" 

but  in  large  heavy  drops,  slowly  gathered  beneath  her 
eyelids,  and  fell  upon  her  bosom. 

"  Say  not  so,  gentlest  Madam,"  returned  Don  Henry  ; 
*'  all  residences  are  not  as  dismal  as  the  Castle  of  Valla- 
dolid  ;  all  hearts  are  not  as  coid  and  barbarous  as  Don 
Pedro's.  The  vows  which  you  have  plighted  to  him,  he 
has  himself  rendered  null  and  void,  and  in  the  co  npass 
of  the  world,  surely  another  will  be  found  who  will  know 
how  to  estimate " 

"  No  more,  Count ;  no  more  of  this,"  said  the  Queen, 
interrupting  him.  *'  It  has  pleased  Heaven  to  link  me  to 
Don  Pedro  by  irrevocable  ties.  For  yourself  rest  assured 
that  you  possess  my  esteem,  my  gratitude,  and  even  my 
affection, " 

'*  Say'st  thou  so,  traitress  !"  shouted  Don  Pedro,  who 
had  arrived  only  in  time  to  hear  the  latter  part  of  her 
answer  to  Henry.  "  Adulteress  !  miscreant !  serpent  of 
France  !  here  receive  the  reward  of  thy  perfidy  and 
shame !" 

Thus  saying,  he  passed  his  sword  thrice  through  the 
body  of  the  unhappy  Queen,  who  fell  at  his  feet  bathed 
in  blood.  Don  Henry,  although  unarmed,  would  have 
rushed  upon  him,  but  was  instantly  made  a  prisoner  by  the 
guard.  With  the  cold,  Gorgon-lik?  gaze  of  Maria  de 
Padilla  fixed  upon  him,  his  blood  ran  chilly  in  his  veins  at 
this  hateful  sight ;  his  lips  quivered,  and  for  a  moment  he 
could  have  fancied  himself  undergoing  the  metamorphosis 
which  the  glance  of  Medusa  is  said  to  have  effected  in 
those  on  whom  it  was  fixed. 

"  Sire  !"  said  Maria,  in  an  under  tone  to  the  King,  as 
she  raised  his  hand  wet  vvith  the  blood  of  his  Queen  to 
her  lips, — "  behold  the  traitor  !   what  shall  be  his  doom  "?" 

"  To  the  scaffold  with  him  !  to  the  block  instantly  !" 

'*  Not  so,  my  liege,  not  so  ;  the  bastard's  fate  would 
but  excite  too  much  sympathy  in  Valladolid,  where  he  has 
contrived  to  gain  the  people's  hearts  ;  and  his  brother  Don 
Tello  would  not  suffer  his  death  to  pass  unrevenged. 
^trip  him  of  his  titles,,  degrade  him,  banish  him;  and  thus 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC.  VJ3 

prolong  his  pangs  for  years,  instead  of  the  brief  interval 
between  the  uplifting  of  the  axe  and  its  descent." 

"  Thou  counsellest  wisely,  my  sweet  Maria,"  said  the 
King ;  and  then  turning  towards  his  prisoner,  added, — • 
"  thank  my  mercy  that  I  will  not  stain  myself  with  thy 
bastard  blood,  traitor  !  but  upon  pain  of  death,  instantly 
begone  !  nor  let  Castile  be  further  polluted  by  thy  pre- 
sence. Depart  not,  however,  as  Count  of  Trastamare, 
but  simply  Henry  de  Guzman,  the  fruit  and  evidence  of 
thy  mother's  infamy  !" 

"  Tyrant  and  murderer !"  retorted  the  indignant  Henry, 
"  I  will  fly  from  Castile,  and  even  to  the  end  of  the  earth, 
to  escape  from  the  domination  of  such  a  monster  as  thou 
art." 

The  King  grinned  fiercely,  and  raised  his  weapon,  but 
his  arm  was  restrained  by  Maria ;  and  his  fears,  and  not 
his  clemency,  having  at  length  triumphed  over  his  thirst 
for  blood,  Don  Henry  walked  uninjured  out  of  the  custody 
of  the  guards. 

Month  succeeded  month,  and  year  rolled  after  year, 
and  the  blood  of  Blanche  of  Bourbon  seemed  to  call  for 
vengeance  in  vain.  That  vengeance  was  at  length,  how- 
ever, fully  and  signally  accomplished  by  a  series  of  events, 
which  are  too  familiar  to  the  readers  of  French  and 
Spanish  history  to  require  to  be  enumerated.  Maria  de 
Padilla,  though  loaded  with  the  favours  of  Don  Pedro, 
could  not  give  him  her  heart,  and  the  remembrance  of  her 
flagrant  crimes  and  her  unrequited  affection,  combined  to 
bring  her  to  an  early  grave  ;  while  Don  Pedro,  after  a 
reign  of  unexampled  cruelty  and  oppression,  was  chased 
from  his  throne  by  his  indignant  subjects,  and  died  by  the 
hands  of  his  deeply- wronged  brother,  Don  Henry,  Count 
of  Trastamare,  who  subsequently  wore  his  crown. 


«b 


1^4  OHHilNAr- 


»HAKSFJb]ARE'S 

SUPERNATURAL  CHARACTERS, 


He  was  the  soul  of  genius, 
And  all  our  praises  of  him  are  like  waters 
Drawn  from  a  spring,  that  still  rise  full,  and  leave 
Tlie  part  remaining  greatest. 

JONSON 


It  is  one  of  the  most  striking  peculiarities  in  the  genius 
of  Shakspeare,  that,  although  he  is  eminently  the  poet  of 
nature,  and  exhibits  her  with  singular  felicity  in  her  ordi- 
nary and  every-day  attire,  yet  that,  when  he  gets  "  beyond 
this  visible,  diurnal  sphere,"  he  surpasses  all  other  writerSj 
in  the  extraordinary  power  and  invention  which  he  displays 
in  the  delineation  of  supernatural  heings.  It  has  been 
justly  remarked,  that  in  his  most  imaginary  characters  he 
cannot  be  so  properly  said  to  go  beyond  nature,  as  to  carry 
nature  along  with  him,  into  regions  which  were  before 
unknown  to  her.  There  is  such  an  extraordinary  pro- 
priety and  consistency  in  his  supernatural  beings,,  and 
every  thing  which  they  say  and  do,  is  in  such  strict  accord- 
ance with  the  character  with  which  he  has  invested  them, 
that  we  at  once  become,  as  it  were,  denizens  of  the  ima- 
ginary world,  which  the  potent  art  of  the  poet  has  con- 
jured around  us  ;  the  marvellous  merges  into  the  probable ; 
and  astonishment  and  surprise  are  changed  into  intense 
interest  and  powerful  sympathy.  Shakspeare  is  the  only 
poet  who  affects  this  ;  at  least,  to  the  same  extent.  The 
magic  of  other  writers  pleases  and  surprises  us;  but  in  that 
of  Shakspeare  we  are  thoroughly  wrapt  up.  We  are  as 
much  under  the  influence  of  the  wand  of  ProsperOy  as  are 
j3n«Z  and  Caliban ;  the  presence  of  the  Weird  Sisters  on 
the  blasted  heath,  arrests  our  attention  as  strongly  as  it 


TALES,   POEMS,    ETC  IW 

^id  that  of  Macbeth  and  Banquo ;  and  the  predictions  of 
the  prophetic  spirits  on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Boswortb, 
ring  as  fearfully  and  as  solemnly  in  our  ears,  as  they  did 
in  those  of  the  conscious  usurper.  The  great  secret  of 
all  this  is,  the  wonderful  art  with  which  the  character  of 
these  visitants  from  another  world  is  sustained,  and  in 
which  they  are  not  surpassed  by  any  of  our  author's  repre- 
sentations of  mere  humanity.  Ariel  is  as  perfect  and  har- 
monious a  picture  as  Miranda^  or  Ferdinand  ;  and,  above 
all,  the  fVitches  in  "  Macbeth^''  are  creations  on  which  the 
poet  has  lavished  all  hi*  skill,  and  exhausted  all  his  in- 
vention. 

The  supernatural  machinery  of  which  he  makes  the 
most  frequent  use,  is  founded  upon  the  popular  belief  in 
ghosts.  This  is  a  superstition  which  has  existed  in  all 
ages  and  countries,  and  among  all  classes  and  conditions 
of  men.  There  are  many  who  affect  to  despise  it,  but  it  is 
scarcely  too  much  to  say  that  there  never  existed  an  indi- 
vidual who  was  not,  at  some  period  or  other,  under  the 
influence  of  the  feelings  which  such  a  belief  excites. 

The  '<  saint,  the  savage,  and  the  sage,"  the  man  of  let- 
ters and  the  uninformed  peasant ;  the  child  of  science., 
who  can  explain  the  structure  of  the  universe  ;  and  even 
the  skeptic, —  Hobbes,  for  instance,  among  many  others, 
— who  refuses  to  give  credence  to  any  written  revelation 
of  the  will  of  the  Creator;  have  all  confessed  that 

"  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth, 
Than  are  dream'd  of  in  our  philosophy." 

Hence  this  belief  has  become  an  engine  of  most  potent 
influence  in  the  hands  of  the  poet ;  since  by  it  he  could 
work  upon  the  feelings  of  all  mankind.  The  great  authors 
of  antiquity,  and  those  of  Spain  and  Italy,  and  above  all, 
those  of  the  north  of  Europe,  the  countries  of  cloud  and 
mist,  the 

"Lands  of.brown  heath  and  shajrgy  wood, 
Lands  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood," 

where  the  phenomena  of  nature  are  such  powerful  auxili- 
aries to  a  lively  imagination,  and  a  credulous  understand- 
ing, all  these  have  delighted  in  breaking  down  the  barrier 


196  OKIGlNAi. 

between  the  corporeal  and  the  s})iritual  world,  and  in 
shaking  our  dispositions, 

"  With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls." 

The  most  distinguished  writers  of  our  own  age  have  not 
neglected  to  avail  themselves  of  this  popular  superstition, 
if  such  it  must  be  called.  Coleridge's  ^^  Ancient  Mariner ;'' 
Lord  Byron's  "  ./If an/re(i,'' and  '' Siege  of  Corinth  ;''^  and 
that  masterpiece  of  the  mighty  Wizard  of  the  North,  the 
^^ Bride  oj  Lammermoor"  are  proofs,  among  innumerable 
others,  of  the  ability  which  ^ur  contemporaries  have 
evinced,  when  they  have  ventured  to  lift  up  the  veil  which 
shrouds  the  secrets  of  the  spiritual  world. 

It  is,  therefore,  not  surprising  that  Shakspeare  should 
have  enrolled  these  shadowy  beings  among  his  dramatis 
personam ;  or,  that  in  his  management  of  them  he  should 
have  displayed  consummate  genius.  The  introduction  to 
the  entrance  of  the  Ghost  in  ^^ Hamlet,^'  shows  infinite  taste 
and  judgment.  Just  as  our  feelings  are  powerfully  ex- 
cited by  the  narration  of  its  appearance  on  the  foregoing 
evening  the  speaker  is  interrupted  by  "majesty  of  buried 
Denmark"  once  more  standing  before  him: — 

'*  The  bell  then  beating  one, 

But  soft,  break  off! — look  where  it  comes  again  f 

then  the  solemn  adjurations  to  it  to  speak  ;  the  awful  si- 
lence which  it  maintains;  the  impotent  attempts  to  strike 
it;  and  the  exclamation  of  Horatio,  when  it  glides 
away, 

'<  We  do  it  wrong,  being  so  majestical, 
To  offer  it  the  show  of  violence," 

present  to  us  that  shadowy  and  indistinct,  but  at  the  same 
time,  appalling  and  fearfully  interesting  picture  which  con- 
stitutes one  of  the  highest  efforts  of  the  sublime.  The  in- 
terview with  Hamlet  is  a  masterpiece.  The  language  of 
this  awful  visitant  is  admirably  characteristic.  It  is  not 
of  this  world.  It  savours  of  the  last  long  resting-place 
of  mortality;  "of  worms,  and  graves,  and  epitaphs." 
It  evinces  little  of  human  feeling  and  frailty.  Vengeance  is 
the  only  passion  which   has  survived  the  wreck  of  the 


TALES,    POEMS,    ETC.  197 

body  ;  and  it  is  this  passion  which  has  burst  the  cerements 
of  the  grave,  and  sent  its  occupant  to  revisit  the  "  glimpses 
of  the  moon."  Its  discourse  is  of  murder,  incest,  suffering, 
and  revenge  ;  and  gives  us  awful  glimpses  of  that  prison-' 
house,  the  details  of  which  are  not  permitted  to  "  ears  of 
flesh  and  blood."  Whether  present  or  absent,  we  are 
continually  reminded  of  this  perturbed  spirit.  When  on 
the  stage,  "  it  harrows  us  with  fear  and  wonder  ;"  and 
when  absent,  we  see  it  in  its  influence  on  the  persons  of 
the  drama,  especially  Harnkt.  The  sensations  of  horror 
and  revenge  which  at  first  possess  the  mind  of  this  prince  ; 
then  his  tardiness  and  irresolution,  which  are  chided  by 
the  reappearance  of  the  spectre  ;  and  his  fears,  notwith- 
standing all  the  evidence  to  the  contrary,  that  it  may  be  an 
evil  spirit,  which, — 

"  Out  of  his  weakness  and  his  melancholy, 
Abuses  him  to  damn  him," 

form  one  of  the  most  affecting  and  interesting  pictures  iu 
the  whole  range  of  Shakspeare's  dramas. 

The  spirits  of  the  murdered  victims  of  the  usurper 
Richard,  are  also  admirably  intmduced  ;  but  they  do  not 
occupy  so  prominent  a  station  in  the  drama  as  the  Ghost 
in  '^^  Hamlet."  The  apparition  oi  Julius  Ccesar  in  the  tent 
of  Brutus,  is  a  brief  but  awful  visitation,  and  the  mind  of 
the  spectator  is  finely  prepared  for  it  by  the  unnatural 
drowsiness  which  possesses  all  the  attendants. 

The  Ghost  of  Banquo  exists  only  in  the  disordered  mind 
oi  Macbeth ;  and  we  think  that  the  effect  would  be  pro- 
digiously increased  if  the  managers  would  listen  to  the 
opinions  of  the  best  critics,  and  forbear  to  present  it  before 
our  visual  organs.  But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  Weird 
Sislers,  and  of  their  unutterable  occupation  ? 

"  How  now,  ye  secret,  black,  and  midnight  hags, 
VVhatis'tyedo?" 

"  A  deed  without  a  name  !" 

This  is  the  true  sublime  ;  it  is  composed  of  the  essential 
elements  of  sublimity  ;  and  the  most  higly  wrought  de- 
scription of  their  employment  would  produce  an  effect 


1^8  ORIRINAI,    TALES,    ETC. 

infinitely  inferior  to  the  simple  brevity  of  this  reply.  The 
mintl  wanders  into  the  pathless  field  of  horrible  imaginings. 
From  the  moment  that  Macbeth  encounters  them  on  the 
*  blasted  heath,  he  is  impelled  along  his  inevitahle  path  by 
their  spells  His  mind  is  troubled  with  "thick-coming 
fancies ;"  his  "  lace  is  a  book  where  men  may  read 
strange  matters  ;" — "  Things  bad  begun,  make  strong 
themselves  by  ill :"  until  at  length,  he  is 

"  in  blood 
Stept  in  so  far,  that,  should  he  wade  no  more, 
Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er  !" 

and  his  unearthly  tempters  complete  their  horrid  task,  and 
gain  their  prey. 

The  Fairies  in  ".^  Midsummer  J^ight^s  Dream^^  are  of 
a  nature  as  essentially  and  distinctly  different  as  celestial 
from  infernal ;  or  light  from  darkness.  Even  "  that 
shrewd  and  knavish  Sprite"  Puck,  is  but  mischievous  only, 
not  wicked  ;  and  Oberon,  and  Tilania,  and  all  their  elfish 
troop,  are  untainted  with  an)  fiendish  attributes,  and  almost 
■without  any  touches  of  mortality.  The  "dehcate  Jlriel" 
is  another  still- varying  creation  of  the  same  gifted  pencil ; 
made  still  more  effective  by  its  contrast  with  the  monster 
Caliban;  "  that  thing  of  darkness," — "  as  disproportioned 
in  his  manners  as  in  his  shape  :" — 

"  Whose  mother  was  a  witch  ;  and  one  so  strong 
That  couid  control  the  moon,  make  ebbs  and  flows  ; 
And  deal  in  her  command,  without  her  power." 

But  to  do  ample  ju**tice  to  all  the  supernatural  charac- 
ters of  Shakspeare,  would  demand  a  volume,  not  an  essay ; 
and  however  frequently  we  may  have  perused  the  magic 
page  which  "  gives  these  airy  nothings  a  local  habitation 
and  a  name,"  it  is  still  untiring,  and  still  new.  And  though 
the  all-potent  art  which  gave  it  life,  and  breath,  and  being, 
is  extinct ;  though  the  charm  be  broken,  and  the  power 
lost ;  yet  still, — 

''  Our  mighty  Bard's  victorious  lays 
Fill  the  loud  voice  of  universal  praise  ; 
And  baffled  Spite,  with  hopless  anguish  dumb 
Yields  to  Renown  the  centuries  to  come  !" 


A   JVIGHT   AT   THE   MERMAID. 

AN  OLD  ENGLISH  TALE. 


"'Tis  a  dismal  shower,  good  mine  host,  and  the  night' 
is  black  as  Erebus ;  my  steed,  too,  is  as  ill  conditioned 
as  I  am,  without  some  slight  respite  to  his  labour,  to  travel 
as  far  as  Whitehall,  whither  my  affairs  call  me.  So  that 
were  your  hostelry  as  full  of  guests  as  London  town  is  of 
sign  boards,  you  must  e'en  find  room  to  afford  me  shelter 
an  hour  or  two." 

'*  in  troth.  Master,''  replied  the  host,  "ye  have  chosen 
a  naughty  night  to  travel  in.  But  i'faith  !  my  private 
chambers  are  all  occupied  by  constant  guests  ;  and  my 
public  room  is  filled  by  a  set  of  gallants,  who  choose  this 
night  in  every  week  to  make  merry  at  the  sign  of  the 
Mermaid." 

*'  'Tis  wondrous  hard,  mine  host,"  returned  the  stranger, 
"that  a  benighted  traveller,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  her 
Majesty,  should  in  the  centre  of  this  ancient  and  hosj)itablc 
city  of  London,  and  from  so  fair  a  host  as  thou  art,  beg- 
in vain  lor  that  favour  which  would  freely  be  granted  to 
him  by  a  wanderer  ot  the  desert.  May  I  crave  of  thee  at 
least  this  courtesy,  to  commend  me  to  those  gallants,  and 
say  that  a  Kentish  gentleman,  whom  nighttall  and  the 
tempest  have  driven  here  for  shelter,  begs  to  know  if  he 
may  warm  himself  at  the  same  fire  with  them,  without 
detriment  to  their  merriment  ?" 

The  host  stared  the  pertinacious  stranger  in  the  face, 
while  he  slowly  unbarred  the  inn-gate :  for,  during  this 
conversation,  the  traveller  had  questioned  on  the  outside, 
while  the  host  answered  him  through  a  small  grating, 
"  They  are  not  such  churlish  curs  as  to  deny  thee  that," 


200  OKiGINAL 

said  the  latter,  "  although  they  have  players,  and  poetS;, 
antl  ne'cr-do-wells  of  all  sorts  among  them.  They  drink 
too,  plenty  of  sack  and  Rhenish  :  and  the  silver  comes  at 
last,  although  sometimes  it  is  over  long  in  its  travels.  No, 
no,  they  would  not  drive  a  night-foundered  stranger  from 
the  gates  ;  and  you,  Sir,  it  is  likely,  will  be  wanting  a  flask 
of  good  wine  to  keep  this  raw  night  air  from  your  stomach." 

"  It  is  the  very  thing,  mine  host,"  said  the  stranger,  as 
the  man  of  flagons  and  puncheons  was  helping  him  from 
his  steed,  in  the  inn-yard,  "  which  1  was  about  to  crave  of 
thee.  But  first  bear  my  message  to  thy  guests  ;  and  I  will 
await  their  answer  in  the  hall," 

The  host,  or,  as  we  shall  in  future  call  him,  Master 
Stephen  Drawwell,  disappeared  this  bidding ;  but  soon 
returned  with  a  message  from  his  guests,  to  say  that  the 
stranger  was  heartily  welcome  to  their  society.  He  then 
ushered  him  across  a  long  corridor,  and  up  a  flight  of  steps 
into  a  spacious  and  lofty  apartment  where  the  gallants,  of 
whom  he  had  spoken,  were  assembled.  A  long  table 
extended  the  whole  length  of  the  room,  while  an  enormous 
wood  fire  blazed  at  each  extremity.  The  floor  was 
strewed  with  rushes  ;  a  piece  of  state  and  luxury  with 
which  Master  Drawwell  ornamented  his  common  room  on 
this  night  of  the  week  only ;  and  wax  tapers  were  placed 
on  various  parts  of  the  table  ;  which  was  also  plentifully 
furnished  with  flasks  and  cups,  bearing  generous  liquors 
of  every  quality. 

The  stranger  was  kindly  welcomed  by  the  whole  party^ 
and  was  conducted  to  a  seat  at  the  right  hand  of  the 
person  who  appeared  to  officiate  as  their  president,  or 
chairman.  A  slight  glance  at  the  persons  by  whom  he 
was  surrounded,  convinced  him  that  he  was  in  the  com- 
pany of  no  common  men.  They  were,  for  the  most  part, 
plainly  habited  ;  and  many  of  them  were  now  considerably 
under  the  influence  of  the  purple  deity,  to  whom  they  had 
been  sacrificing.  But  amidst  the  wild  jollity  and  obstrepe- 
rous mirth  in  which  they  indulged,  he  detected  many 
brilliant  sallies  of  wit ;  the  most  caustic  touches  of  satire  ; 
and  a  profound  acquaintance  with  the  deepest  mysteries  of 
the  human  heart.  After  listening  for  some  time  with  vacuity, 
and  almost  disgust,  to  a  stale  punster,  he  found  him  sud- 
denly transformed  into  a  man  of  brilliant  genius;  a  dul' 


TALES,  POEMS,  ETC.  201 

person  near  him,  whom  his  potations,  and  too  great  an  indul- 
gence in  that  fragrant  weed  which  had  recently  been 
imported  from  Virginia,  seemed  to  havi-  reduced  to  a  state 
of  listlessness,  at  the  inspiring  call  of  some  kindred  spirit, 
discovered  himself  to  be  an  accomplished  scholar,  and  an 
observant  and  pholisophical  traveller;  while  a  third,  after 
singing  a  sfave  of  a  dull  and  senseless  madrigal,  became 
engaged  in  a  discussion,  which  drew  forth  from  him  a  dis- 
play of  knowledge  and  eloquence,  at  which  Demosthenes 
himself  would  have  sat  down  in  despair. 

Such  was  the  gifted  but  eccentric  circle  to  which  our 
traveller  found  himself  introduced.  The  president,  to 
whose  peculiar  care  he  was  assigned,  was  a  thick-set,  and 
rather  clum-iily  built  person,  with  a  round  burly  face  ;  a 
high  forehead  ;  and  eyes  whose  uncommon  expression  of 
keenness  and  intelligence  was  not  impaired  b}  tiie  circum- 
stance of  one  being  con-ideiably  larger  than  the  other. 
He  seemed  to  be  peculiarly  well  fitted  for  the  jovial  station 
which  he  occupied  ;  for,  as  the  flasks  passed  round  the 
table,  he  pulled  from  them  us  long,  and  as  hearty  a  draught, 
as  any  of  the  company  ;  and,  apparently,  with  less  eftecl 
of  ebriety  than  most  of  them.  His  conversational  powers 
seemed  of  the  highest  ordi  r  ;  and  the  sly  satire,  the  fine 
humour,  and  the  polished  wit,  which  escaped  apparently 
unconsciously  from  his  lips,  kept  the  table  in  a  roar  during 
the  whole  of  the  evening. 

This  vivacious  chairman  soon  found  out  that  the  stranger 
had  been  in  the  army  ;  "  Ye  have,  doubtless,  then,"  he 
said,  "  fought  against  the  Don,  Sir,  in  the  Netherlands  V 

*'l  have.  Sir,"  replied  the  stranger  ;  "in  the  Netherlands, 
and  in  America." 

«'  I  had  a  scratch  with  him  myself,"  said  the  chairman  ; 
"when  Lord  Essex  went  over  to  Flanders,  1  was  in  good 
old  Sir  Thomas  Stanton's  regiment." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  other,  somewhat  incredulously; 
<'and  may  1  ask  your  naine  ?" 

"  You  may,  and  learn  it  too,"  replied  the  dignitary  of 
the  Mermaid  :  "  'tis  Jonson." 

"  Jonson  !"  said  the  stranger,  who  now  felt  convinced 
that  he  was  either  gravely  iniposed  upon  by  the  chairman, 
or  that  the  wags  of  the  hostelry  were  laugliing  at  him  in 
(heir  sleeves  ;  "'tis  strange,  but  1  was  well  acquainted  with 

Cc 


202  ORIGINAL 

every  officer  in  that  res^iment,  and  do  not  recollect  there 
was  one  of  that  name." 

"  Officer  !"  shouted  the  other,  and  followed  his  shout 
with  an  obstreperous  laugh  ;  "  No,  no  ;  Fortune  placed 
me  in  the  ranks.  'Twas  a  hoy's  freak  ;  I  thoutiht  that  I 
should  prt  I'er  hiiiulling  a  nuisket  to  a  trowel,  so  I  !•  ft  the 
front  of  Lincoln's  inn  gate- way  for  the  palisadoes  of 
Bruges." 

A  light  broke  in  upon  the  stranger's  mind,  which  in- 
stantly brightened  over  his  face  ;  "  Can  it  he  ?"  fe  said  ; 
*'  I  have  heard  of  this  story  before  ;  can  you  be  the  poet, 
the  dramatist,  Ben  Jonson  ?" 

"  Ay,"  exclaimed  a  dozen  voices  from  all  parts  of  the 
room,  "  who  hut  Ben  1  rare  Ben  !  jovial  Ben  !  honest 
Ben  !  immortal  Ben  !"  and  the  mirth  and  conviviality  were 
redoubled  ;  while  the  stranger,  who  felt  like  one  who  has 
unconsciously  intruded  into  the  presence  of  superior 
beings,  was  by  turns  awed  and  delighted  by  the  persons 
among  whom  he  found  himself. 

About  the  middle  of  the  table  was  seated  a  person  of  a 
singularly  saturnine  and  melancholy  expression  of  coun- 
tenance. His  features,  which  were  somewha*  of  an  Italian 
cast,  indicated  a  fine  intelligence,  and  a  polished  taste  ; 
but  still  there  was  soniething  about  thein  which  repelled 
the  advances  of  the  most  conlially  disposed.  He  appeared 
considerably  okler  than  most  of  his  compaiions;  but 
led  by  a  similarity  of  testes  and  occupations,  to  rningle  in 
their  society.  They  st  emed  to  ngaid  hiui  with  extraor- 
dinary deference  an<l  respect,  and  to  listen  with  attention 
and  even  reverence  to  all  that  he  utti-red  ;  although  every 
sentence  which  fell  Iroui  his  lijis  was  itnhued  wth  the  bit- 
terest and  most  vitulent  f»ersonal  satire.  The  praises 
and  complinn  nts  which  were  heaped  upon  Jonson,  in 
consequence  of  the  stranger's  surprise,  seemed  greaily  to 
discompose  this  personage.  He  listened  to  ihem  in  si- 
lence, and,  after  they  had  subsided,  pursed  his  lips  into  a 
sardonic  grin,  while  he  addressed  the  Chairman  in  these, 
words  : — 

"  Pray  tell  me,  Ben,  where  does  the  mystery  lurk  ? 
What  others  call  a  Play,  you  call  a  Work  I^' 


TALES,    POEiMS,    ETC.  203 

The  sting-  in  this  line  consisted  in  the  fact  of  Jonsori 
having  lately  published  a  volume  of  Plays,  entitled  "The 
Works  of  B  njamin  Jonson  ;"  which  lertn  was  then  con- 
sidered ridiculously  anogani  and  pompous,  although  it 
has  since  been  cominorily  applied  in  the  same  sense. 
Some  of  the  company  were  amused,  but  more  were  grieved, 
at  this  sally,  as  tending  to  damp  their  hilarity  ;  but  no  one 
seemed  more  disconcerted  than  the  person  who  was  the 
object  of  it.  At  length,  hovvever,  a  lame  man,  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  ro  'm,  exclaimed,  while  a  good-humoured 
smile  mantled  over  his  features, 

"  The  Author's  friend,  thus  for  the  Author  says, 
Ben's  P. ays  are  works,  while  otiiers'  Works  are  plays."* 

The  momentary  damp  which  had  hung  upon  the  spirits  of 
the  coujpany,  vvas  dispelled  by  this  sally  ;  and  one  long 
loud  peal  of  laughter  and  applause  cleared  away  the  gloom 
which  had  darkened  round  them. 

"Thanks!  Uncle  VVdly  !"  said  J  ^nson  ;  "thanks,  my 
sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !  A  mad  wag,  my  friend,"  he  con- 
tinued, addressing  the  stranger;  "he  comnenced  his 
career  with  deer-stealing,  and  he  has  ever  since  continued 
the  pilfering  trade,  by  stealing  away  the  hearts  of  all  who 
know  him." 

"  Is  itShakspeare?"  inquired  the  stranger,  in  a  tremu- 
lous tone. 

"  'Tis  none  but  he,"  returned  Jonson ;  "  a  kind  youth, 
and  a  clever.  He  lacks  the  ancient  ton^iues  though  ;  and 
he  doth  take  most  irreverent  liberties  with  the  wise  rules 
of  the  Stagyri(e  ;  yet  he  knows  in  some  sort  to  tickle  the 
popular  ear  ;  and  crowds  will  go  to  see  his  re[)resentation 
of  a  Shipwreck,  although  it  be  upon  the  coast  of  Bohemia, 
who  do  not  comprehend  a  single  one  of  the  classical  allu- 
sions in  m}  Poetaster.'' 

"  Nay,  nay,  Ben,"  said  a  keen-eyed,  good-looking  strip- 
ling by  his  side  ;  "  tlij  Poetaster  hath  its  i-raise,  but  match 
it  not  with  the  immortal  works  of  my  Go'lfather." 

"I  cry  you  mercy,  young  M.ister  I)a\enant!"  said 
Jonson  J   "  1  knew  not  that  thy  quick  ears  were  so  close 

""'  As  both  these  joux  d'csprit  arc  anonymous,  I  have  consi- 
dered myself  privileged  to  appropriate  them  as  1  tlioug!it 
proper. 


204  ORIGINAL    TALES,  litC. 

to  my  hasty  tongue.  But  William,  friend,  have  a  care  iti 
future,  when  thou  speakest  of  Master  Shakspeare,  that 
thou  take  not  the  name  of  God  in  vain." 

Jonson  had  now  turned  ihe  laugh  against  his  defender, 
who  was  supi  osed  by  man}  to  be  connected  with  Dave- 
nant  much  more  closely  than  by  the  spor»sorial  tie.  "  But 
ne'er  mind,  Master  Sliakspeare,"  said  Jonsun,  "  the  lad 
is  a  proper  person  ,  and  hath  more  wit  in  his  pate  than 
Avas  ever  inherited  from  an  Oxford  tapster.  Bui  tell  me, 
my  heart  of  Warwickshire,  when  am  1  to  carry  thy  little 
Judith  to  the  baptismal  font  ?" 

"Right  speedily,  Ben,"  answered  Shakspeare;  "and 
then  we  shall  see  what  rare  present  thou  wilt  bestow  upon 
her." 

"It  shall  be  something,"  returned  Jonson,  "which  it  is 
fitting  for  a  poet  and  a  scholar  to  give  ;  one  wh<)  hath  tho 
tongues,  and  is  skilled  in  the  lore  of  ancient  Greece  and 
Rome." 

"  Give  her  some  lalten  spoons,"  added  Shakspeare ; 
*'  and  then,  Ben,  thou  canst  translate  them." 

"A  murrain  upon  thy  word-torturing  wit,  W^illy,"  re- 
plied Jonson  ;  "  thou  perverter  of  language,  and  destroyer 
of  the  simplicity  of  syllables  !  Bn\  a  truce  to  these  wit- 
combatants,  as  Master  Fuller  calleth  them,  ami  let  us  have 
a  catch.  Here  is  Master  Steph<'n  Dowland  justenteiing 
the  room  ;  and,  by  my  faith  !  Master  Matthew  Locke 
■with  him.  A  song,  Master  Locke  !  a  song,  and  that  right 
speedily  !" 

Locke,  however,  had  no  sooner  joined  the  party  than 
he  engaged  in  close  conversation  wi'h  Shakspeare,  without 
paying  any  attention  to  the  call  of  the  Cliairman.  They 
were  conversing  upon  a  subject  deeply  interesting  not 
only  to  themselves,  but  all  posterity,  for  it  was  on  the  time 
and  manner  of  bringing  out  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  a  tra- 
gedy, which  the  latter  had  written,  and  [>arts  of  which  the 
ibrmer  had  set  to  music  under  thp  title  of  "  J)fac6e/A." 

"  He  heeds  me  not,  Master  Dowland,"  said  Jonson ; 
"  he  and  that  Warwickshire  carle  are  plotting  some  mis- 
chief, for  their  heads  have  never  been  under  the  same 
roof  for  the  last  six  months,  without  coming  into  close 
contact." 

(Left  unfinished,) 


THE    TllEKSCHUIT, 


It  was  in  the  Autumn  of  the  year  1824,  on  my  return 
to  England  from  a  t  ur  along   ht  Rlihie,  that  I  lound  my- 
self for  the  second  time  m  the  city  of  Ghent ,  and  it  was 
not  without  a  feeling  of  very  c.)nsitieral)le   interest  and 
pleasure,  that  I  rewsited    Flanders.      1  had  seen  most  of 
the  finest  tvvns  of  Geiniany  and   Fiance;    but  in   pic- 
turesque  and    antique   biauty,  they  were   none  ol   them 
to  be  compared  wiili  Antwerp;   Biussels,  the  old   part  of 
the  town;  Malines,   Bruges;  and,  above  all,  Ghent.    The 
magnificent  and  venerable  cathedrals;   the  stately  streets 
lined  with  palaces,  once   the  residences  of  the  nobility  of 
Flanders  and  Burgundy  ;  although  now,  alas  !   let  out  into 
tenements,  and  the  ground  floors  occupied  by  pett)  trades- 
men ;   the  museums  so  ricid)  adorned  with  the  works  of 
native  artists  ;    and   the  sad  and   melanchol)  solitude  of 
those  once  thickly  populated  thoroughfares,  which  never- 
theless retained,  I  thought,  a  solemn  beaui^  af)out  them; 
made  a  deep  impression  on  ni}  minti.      1  will,  however, 
deal  candidi}  with  my  n  aders  ;  and  conless  to  them,  that 
ideas  of  a  grosser,  and  less  intellectual,  chaiactei,  mingled 
with  m)  reveries,  as  1  a|)proached  Ghent.      I   had  been 
riding  all  day;  it  was  long  alter  sunset ,  and  I  thought  of 
the  Hotel  des  Pa}s  Beis,  and  of  the  good  cheer  with  which 
JNI.  Doublet,  the  worthy  host,  used  to  spread   his  table  at 
the  patriarchal  su[)per  fiour  of  nine.     Although  the  viands 
were  alwiiys  'xcellent,  and  the  wines  of  the  most  tempting 
quality,  M.  D  mbh  I's  hours  at  hist  puzzled  me  not  a  little. 
Dinner  at  one,  a  id  su|)pei  at   nine,  were  sucli   plebeian 
meals,  that  1  should  have  hlusned  to  the  very  throat,  had 
certain  of  my  acq  .aintances  detected  me  in  the  conmiis- 
sion  of  such  enoKuities.      However,  I   recollected  that  if 
I   chose  to  christen  the  first  re|jast,  luncheon,  and  tiic 
second,  dinner,  I  should  be  sufhciently  near  to  the  hour?< 


SJUC  ORIUINAL 

set  apart  for  such  affairs  in  London  ;  where,  as  is  welt 
known,  it  is  the  hei}5ht  of  fashion  to  go  without  dinner, 
and  take  a  hot  supper. 

I  arrived  in  Ghent  just  in  time  to  allow  my  physical 
organs  to  participate  in  ihe  m'  al,  with  which  1  had  been 
for  Siime  time  past  regaling  my  fancy.  1  sat  down  amidst 
a  parly  of  ten  or  twelve,  and  was  received  with  that 
courtesy  and  cordiality,  which,  whatever  John  Bull  may 
think  of  his  own  liospitality,  a  stranger  never  meets  with 
in  such  j)erfection,  as  on  the  contiuential  side  of  the 
channel. 

"  Monsieur  is  going  to  make  some  stay  in  this  town  ?' 
said  the  person,  who  had  been  most  assiduous  in  loading 
my  piate  with  the  best  ot  every  thing. 

"  No,"  I  ref)Iied  ;  "  1  liave  already  seen  all  that  is  most 
inte»esting  in  Ght-nt,  and  purpose  starting  for  Ostend  in 
the  morning,  by  ihc  Tn  khchuit  " 

"  Ces^  bien  lieureux.*^  answered  the  A' -be,  for  such  he 
was;  "that  is  very  lucky,  as  we  are  all  bent  on  the  same 
expedition.  There  are  eleven  of  us  ;  we  have  hired  the 
little  Trekschuit — La  Ville  de  Bruges, — lor  ourselves; 
and  there  is  just  accommodation  for  another  passenger. 
If  Monsieur  will  join  us,  1  think  1  shall  do  no  more  than 
speak  the  sense  of  all,  when  1  say  that  we  shall  be  proud 
of  his  company." 

The  Abbe's  [)roposition  was  instantly  and  unanimously 
carried ;  and  as  I  was  travelling  alone,  I  did  not  hesitate 
to  accede  to  it. 

"  Monsieur,  however,"  said  a  young  gentleman  with 
dark  hair,  and  a  pale  face,  who  sat  opposite  to  sue,  *'  sh(juld 
be  made  acquainted  with  the  terms  t)y  whicli  our  party  is 
bound  together.  If  h<-  has  ever  sailed,  or  rather  been 
towefi,  in  the  Trekschuit  before," — I  nodded  an  assent,— 
*•  he  cannot  have  forgotten  that,  however  pleasant  he  found 
the  journey  at  tirst,  the  noiseless  monotonous  progress  of 
the  boat,  and  the  Hut  and  unvaiied  character  of  the  scenery, 
oppressed  him  with  insufferable  weariness  and  ennui,  long 
before  he  arrived  at  his  destination." 

"  Of  a  surety,"  1  replied,  "  I  have  not  forgotten  it;  for 
my  last  journey  from  Osiend  to  Brussels,  wdl  long  be 
remembered;  though,  at  fnst,  the  Trekschuit  pleased  me 
^vell  enousrh.     Having  been  tossed  about  all  the  dav  before 


TALES,  POEMS,  ETC.  SO-T 

in  a  steam-boat,  on  the  German  Ocean,  without  being 
quite  sure  that  1  should  not  make  up  my  final  bed  there; 
and  the  three  things  in  the  world,  which,  it  I  have  any 
choice,  1  like  least,  being  s«^a-sickness,  explosion,  and 
drowning, — I  cannot  decide  which  is  the  worst, — the 
Trekschuit  appeareil  to  mc  a  ver\  quiet  and  secure  con- 
veyance. B'lt  the  (la)  wore  on,  and  theie  being  still  no- 
thing to  be  seen,  but  ihe  same  straight  banks  of  the  canal ; 
the  same  plantittions  of  caiibages  and  onions  on  each  side 
of  it ;  and  the  same  dull  tacitutri  crew,  whose  wits,  if  they 
had  any,  seemtd  spell-bonnd  by  the  genius  of  the  place; 
I  even  wished  myself  again  bi-atiiig  backwards  and  for- 
wards off  ihe  Foreland.  If  then,  ye  have  any  divice  for 
mitigating  the  tedium  of  to-morrow's  journey,  there  is  no 
one  will  co-operate  with  y^u  more  williiisily  than  I  shall." 

"Then  it  is  even  tliis  expedient,"  said  ni}  pale-faced 
companion,  "which  has  been  proposed  b)  our  reverend 
friend  the  Abbe,  that  each  should  narrate  a  tale  tor  the 
entertainment  of  tlie  company.  This,  with  a  plentiful 
supply  ot  Rhenish  and  cigais;  and  such  a  dinner,  to 
divide  the  moiuiug  from  the  evening,  as  even  M.  Doublet 
would  not  blush  to  lay  before  us,  will  perhaps  make  the 
Trekschuit  to-morrow,  a  resi  !ence  at  least  as  agreeable 
as  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre  ai  Boulogne  " 

As  the  allusion  to  th  D  mors'  pris  in,  which  is  thus 
designated,  at  B(nil  )giie,  on  account  of  the  number  oi  our 
countrymen  who  do  it  the  honour  to  take  up  their  resi- 
dence there,  was  intetuled  to  raise  a  laugh  at  my  expense, 
in  which  it  was  successful,  1  readily  promised  also  to  as- 
sist in  the  plan  ot  amusement  propostd,  and  then  applied 
m}self  with  becoming  alacrit)  to  the  completion  of  my 
meal. 

An  early  hour  the  next  morning  saw  us  on  the  deck  of 
La  Vitle  de  Bruges  As  the  reader  is  to  accompany  us 
in  our  progiess  down  the  canals,  and  as  "  all  our  tedious- 
ness"  is  'specially  reserved  for  hitn,  I  thiidf  it  v\ill  be  only 
seemly  and  decot.>us  d  I  introduce  him  to  our  party  First 
then  there  is  Mvself; — "fidclicet.  myself,"  as  iS'iV  Hugh 
Evans  would  say, — a  beardless,  brietless  barrister ; — 

"  One  foredoom'd  his  father's  soul  to  cross 
And  pen  a  stanza  when  he  should  engross.'^ 


208  ORIUINAL 

I  was  ambitious  to  surmount  my  wig-  with  a  wreath  of 
laiirt  I ;  to  introduce  ihe  nine  muses  to  the  twelve  judges  ; 
to  invest  Apo  1)  with  a  silk  gown;  and   harness  Pegasus 
to  the   Chief  Justice's  carriage.      But    I    unfortunately 
found,  tliat  the  two  occupations  did  not  harmonize,  and  I 
made  all  kinds  of  ridiculous  lihinders.      I  sent  an  attorney 
a  volume  of  poems  with  the  author's  com[)liments ;  and 
despatched  the  case  and  Oj-inion.  which  should  have  filled 
their  place,  to  the  editor  of  the  ''J^ew  Montlily"  request- 
ing an  early  and  favotirahle  review;  the  consequence  of 
wliich  was,  that  the  attorney  sent  me  no  more  briefs,  and 
the  next  JVcto  Monthly  contained  some  mighty  pleasant 
verses, — to  all  but  ttie  subject  of  them, — entitled  *'  Verst' 
atility  of  Talent  at  the  Bar."     I  had  resolved  to  spend  my 
long  vacation  en  the  continent  this  }ear,  for  the  purpose 
of  viewing  foreign  courts  of  law,  and  getting  some  insight 
into  thi  jurisprudence  of  other  countries  ;  and  after  atten- 
tively studying  the  works  of  Rub'  ns  and  Vandyke,  seeing 
bow  judges  aiul    barristers  looked  at  the  theatres,  and 
spiel-houses;    and    pondering  deeply  on    those  abstruse 
legal  questions  which  were  suggested  by  the  scenery  on 
the  banks  of  the  Rhine  ;   having  accomplished  all  these 
desiderata,  I  vvas  now  on  my  return  to  Westminster-hallj 
with  a  wonderful  acquisition  of  juridical  knowledge  in  my 
cranium. 

Next  to  me  sat  the  Abbe  ;  a  jovial,  rubicond,  good- 
humoured,  Priest,  who  was  travelling  on  the  affairs  of  the 
Church  to  Ostend  ;  and  as  he  was  poitl>  and  well  fed, 
and  the  weather  intensely  hot,  the  good  father  was  in  "a 
continual  dissolution  and  thaw"  throughout  the  journey. 
As  I  gazed  in  his  face,  and  saw  the  whole  huge  mass  of 
flesh,  of  which  his  person  was  composed,  resolving  itself 
into  water,  I  began,  good  Protestant  as  I  am,  to  have  some 
faith  in  the  doctrine  of  transnbstantiation  He  was  a, 
lively  and  merry,  but  withal,  discreetly  conducted  person- 
age ;  evidently  a  man  of  learning  and  considerable  talent ; 
and  one  of  the  members  of  onr  little  society  with  whom 
we  would  have  least  willingly  parted. 

The  pale-faced  youth,  whom  i  have  already  mentioned, 
was  a  young  artist  from  Antwerp,  on  his  way  to  London. 
He  was  tall  and  handsome  ;  but  a  close  and  unwearied 
enthusiasm  in  his  application  to  his  art,  had  evidently 


'  TALES,    POEMS,    ETC.  209 

impaired  liis  health.  I  soon  entered  into  conversation 
with  him,  and  found  that  he  had  travelled  in  Greece  and 
Italy ;  had  once  visited  Paris,  solely  with  a  view  of  going 
through  the  Louvre  ;  and  was  nuvv  journeying  to  London, 
for  the  purpose  of  studying  from  the  Elgin  Marble?.  ^ 
His  great  townsman  Rubens  was  the  god  of  his  idolatry  ; 
■whenever  his  merits  formed  the  subject  of  conversation, 
his  eye  would  kindle  with  unusual  light,  and  his  whole 
frame  seemed  animated  by  some  extraordinary  ini})ulse. 
It  is  true,  that  he  was  apt  to  be  a  little  intolerant  of  those 
who  ventured  to  differ  with  him  on  this  subject ;  but  this 
is  a  fault  with  which  I  fear  that  we  are  most  of  us  charge- 
able, when  our  favourite  topic  is  undergoing  discussion. 

Opposite  to  me  sat  an  officer  in  the  Prussian  service, 
who  had  distinguished  himself  in  the  last  campaign  in 
Flanders;  and  was  now  conducting  his  lady,  the  only 
female  in  our  party,  over  the  scenes  of  his  former  exploits. 
He  had  taken  her  to  view  the  fields  of  Waterloo  and 
Ligny,  and  the  ramparts  of  Antwerp ;  and  he  was  now 
about  to  inspect  the  fortifications  of  Ostend.  Ho  had 
proved  himself  a  good  soldier,  and  was  withal  a  man  of 
strong  sense,  but  not  uninfected  with  strong  prejudices. 
He  hated  the  French ;  believed  that  Prussia  was  the 
greatest,  grandest,  and  most  glorious  kingdom  in  the 
world  ;  and  maintained  that  the  battle  of  Waterloo  was 
won  by  Bliicher.  He  did  not  seem  very  fond  of  Catho- 
lics, and  at  first  eyed  the  Abbe  somewhat  askance  ;  but 
the  good  humour  and  lively  manners  of  the  Pi  iest  speedily 
triumphed  over  the  reserve  of  the  German,  and  before 
we  had  proceeded  far  on  our  journey,  they  were  seated 
side  by  side,  and  were  partaking  very  cordially  of  the 
contents  of  the  same  snuff-box. 

*  r«  *  *  *  *  * 

The  preceding  Fragment,  which  is  thus  abruptly  terminated 
in  the  MS.,  was  originally  intended  to  have  hod  a  second  title, 
and  to  have  been  called,  either  '■'•The  Decameron  of  the 
Canals,'''  or  ''  Tales  told  in  Flatiders ;"  and  to  have  intro- 
duced about  a  dozen  different  narratives  i  several  of  whicli  arc 
contained  in  tlic  present  Volume,  and  the  remainder  arc  in- 
cluded in  Mr.  i\eele's  last  work,  the  "  Romance  of  History." 
— Editok. 

Dd 


SJIO  OKIttlNAi. 


HYMNS   FOR   CHILDREN. 


I. 

Oil  Tliou  !  who  sitt'st  enthroned  on  higii, 
Ancient  of  Days  !  Eternal  King  ! 

May  Childhood  and  mortality 

Hope  thou  wilt  listen  while  they  sing ! 

We  raise  our  Songs,  but.  Oh !  to  Thee 
What  praise  can  mortal  tongue  impart ; 

Till  thou  hast  tuned  to  harmony, 
That  jarring  instrument,  the  Heart  ? 

Then,  Infant  warblings  in  thine  ear, 
As  sweet  as  Angel  notes  shall  roll  ; 

For  thou  wilt  bend  from  Heaven  to  hear 
The  still,  soft  music  of  the  Soul. 

Oh  !  teach  us  some  celestial  Song, 
Some  note  of  high  and  holy  joy  ; 

And  that  shall  dwell  upon  the  tongue. 
And  that  shall  all  our  Souls  employ. 

Then,  Time  shall  hear,  while  Time  is  ours. 

The  Song  of  praise  we  pour  to  Thee  ; 
And  Heaven  shall  lend  us  nobler  powers 

To  sound  it  through  Eternity ! 


II. 

Oh  Thou !  who  mak'st  the  Sun  to  rise, 
Beam  on  my  Soul,  illume  mine  eyes, 

And  guide  me  through  this  world  of  care 
The  wandering  atom  thou  canst  see, 
The  falling  Sparrow  's  mark'd  by  thee. 
Then,  turning  Mercy's  ear  to  me. 
Listen  !  Listen ! 

Listen  to  an  Infant's  prayer ! 


TALRS,  POEMS,  ETC.  21 1 

Oh  Thou  !  whose  blood  was  spilt  to  save 
Man's  nature  from  a  second  grave  ; 

To  share  in  whose  redeeming  care, 
Want's  lowliest  cliild  is  not  too  mean, 
Guilt's  darkest  victim  too  unclean. 
Oh  !  thou  wilt  deign  from  Heaven  to  lean. 
And  listen,  listen, 

Listen  to  an  Infant's  prayer. 

Oh  Thou  !  wlio  wilt  from  Monarchs  part, 
To  dwell  within  the  contrite  heart, 

And  build  thyself  a  Temple  there  ; 
O'er  all  mv  dull  affections  move. 
Fill  all  my  Soul  with  Heav'nly  love, 
And,  kindly  stooping  from  above, 
Listen  !  Listen  '. 

Listen  to  an  Infant's  prayer  ! 


in. 

God  of  Mercy  !  throned  on  high. 

Listen  from  Thy  lofty  seat : 
Hear,  Oh!  hear  our  feeble  cry. 

Guide,  Oh  !  guide  our  wandering  feet. 

Young  and  erring  Travellers,  we 
All  our  dangers  do  not  know  ; 

Scarcely  fear  the  stormy  sea. 
Hardly  feel  the  tempest  blow. 

While  our  bosoms  yet  are  young. 
Kindle  in  them  Love  divine  ; 

Ere  the  tide  of  sin  grows  strong. 
Take  us,  keep  us,  make  us.  Thine  ! 

When  perple.x'd  in  danger's  snare, 
Thou  alone  our  guide  canst  be  : 

When  opprcss'd  with  deepest  care.. 
Whom  have  we  to  trust  but  Thee  ? 

Lord  !  instruct  us  then,  and  pour 
Hope  and  Love  on  every  Soul  ; 

Hope,  till  Time  shall  bo  no  more. 
JiOve,  while  endless  ages  roll. 


313  ORIGINAL 

IV. 

Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  yonih.—Eccles,  xii.  1. 

Remember  Him,  for  He  is  great, 

And  winds  and  waves  obey  his  will : 
The  surges,  awed  by  Him,  abate, 

And  tempests  at  his  voice  are  still- 
Remember  Him,  tor  He  is  wise, 

To  mark  our  actions  every  day  ; 
To  know  what  thoughts  within  us  rise, 

And  notice  every  word  we  say. 

Remember  Him,  for  He  is  good, 

He  sent  his  Son  to  die  for  Sin  ; 
And  the  rich  ocean  of  his  blood, 

Can  cleanse  and  purify  within. 

Remember  Him,  for  He  is  kind, 
And  will  not  frown  the  poor  away  ; 

He  heals  the  sick,  restores  the  bUnd, 
And  listens  when  the  humblest  pray. 

Remember  Him,  before  the  days 

Of  evil  come,  and  joy  is  dim  ; 
While  Time  is  yours,  repeat  his  praise, 

While  Life  remains,  remember  Him  .' 


EPITAPHS. 


I. 

A  Saint,  a  Wife,  a  Mother  slumbers  here, 

To  Heaven,  to  Husband,  and  to  Children  dear ; 

But  Heaven,  to  which  her  chiefest  thoughts  were  prone, 

Too  early  claim'd,  and  made  her  all  its  own. 

Three  infant  pledges  of  pure  love  she  left. 

Unconscious  they  of  how  much  good  bereft  ; 

Their  tears  may  well  be  spared,  they  need  not  fall, 

There  's  one  whose  heart  iioards  grief  enough  for  all : 

Who,  but  for  them,  as  he  bends  o'er  this  stone, 

Would  long  to  make  her  peaceful  grave  his  own. 


I 


TALES,  FOEMS,  ETC.  213 

n. 

Good  night !  good  night,  sweet  Spirit !  thou  hast  cast 

Thy  bonds  of  clay  away  from  thee  at  last  ; 

Broken  the  earthly  fetters,  which  alone 

Held  thee  at  distance  from  thy  Maker's  Throne  ;    • 

But  Oh  !  those  fetters  to  th'  immortal  mind, 

Were  links  of  love  to  those  thou  'st  left  behind. 

For  thee  we  mourn  not  ;  as  th'  Apostle  prest 

His  dungeon  pillow,  till  the  Angel-guest 

Drew  nigh,  and  when  the  light  that  round  him  shone, 

Beam'd  on  the  prisoner  his  bonds  were  gone  : 

So  wert  thou  subject  to  disease  and  pain  ; 

Till  Death,  the  brightest  of  th'  angelic  train, 

Pour'd  Heaven's  own  radiance,  by  divine  decree, 

Around  thy  sufiering  Soul,  and  it  was  free  I 


SONNET. 

On  reading  the  Remains  of  the  late  IIenrt  Kiree  Wuite. 

Yes,  all  is  o'er !  the  pangs  which  Nature  felt, 

Have  thus  subsided  into  dread  repose  ; 

The  feelings  Genius  only  gives,  and  knows, 
Nor  sooth,  nor  sadden  now  ;  nor  fire,  nor  melt ; 
How  sadly  and  how  soon  Death's  waltering  wave 

Closed  o'er  his  honour'd  head.     Too  lovely  Rose, 

Why  in  such  open  brilliancy  disclose 
Those  buds  condemned  such  cruel  blight  to  brave  ? 

Was  Genius',  Virtue's,  Learning's  power  too  small 
To  snatch  their  votary  from  the  silent  s^rave  ? 

Ah  me  !   we  toil  through  life,  until  the  call       • 
Of  Death  arrests  us,  impotent  to  save  ; 
The  great,  the  good,  the  wise  around  us  fall, 
While  Vice  and  Folly  live,  proud  arbiters  of  all. 


214  OHIUINAL 

FRIENDSHIP. 

From  the  French. 


(( 


Feikndship  !  to  tliee  I  raise  my  voice. 

Love  cannot  equal  thee  ; 
Thou  art  the  object  of  my  choice, 

Oh  !  como  and  comfort  me  ! 
Thou,  hke  the  roseate  break  of  day, 

Shinest,  but  dost  not  burn  ; 
Peace  dwells  with  (hee,  and  'neatli  thy  sway. 

True  happiness  we  learn." 

'Twas  thus,  when  fifteen  springs  their  braid? 

Had  woven,  Laura  spake  ; 
The  gentle  error  of  fair  maids, 

When  their  first  vows  they  make. 
Unto  her  idol  then  she  raised 

A  temple  rich  and  rare ; 
And,  night  and  day,  bright  cressets  blazed, 

And  odours  rich  buni'd  there. 

Only  his  features  to  express 

A  Statue  was  required ; 
Had  the  Arts  reach'd  such  perfectness, 

T'  achieve  the  work  desired. 
A  master-piece  of  Art  to  choose. 

To  Phidias  quick  she  went  ; 
All  grandeur's  forms,  and  beauty's  hues, 

Must  in  that  form  be  blent. 

The  Artist  Friendship's  statue  show'd  : 

How  unlike  what  she  sought ! 
Simple,  severe,  of  antique  mode. 

With  no  soft  graces  fraught 
■•'This  is  not  he  !"  she  cried,  '•'•  I  spurn 

Your  false  and  peevish  art  ; 
Would  you  from  a  true  model  learn, 

Behold  him  in  my  heart ! 

<'  There,  stretch'd  upon  a  bed  of  down, 
Slumbers  a  lovely  child  ; 
Behold  the  master  whom  I  own, 
And  serve  !"  she  said,  and  smiled  : 
"  Ah  !"  said  the  Artist,  "•  Beauty  must 
That  tyrant's  vassal  prove  ; 
You  come  to  me  for  Friendship's  bust, 
And  bid  me  copy  Love !'' 


TALES,  POEMS,  ETC.         -  216 

LOVE  AND  BEAUTY. 

''       '    A   Fragment. 


Oh  Love  !  triumphant  Love  !  thy  throne  is  built 
Where  tempests  cannot  shake  it,  or  rude  force 
Tear  up  its  strong  foundations.     In  the  heart 
Thy  dv^'elling  is,  and  there  thy  potent  spell 
Turns  its  dark  chambers  into  Palaces. 
Thy  power  is  boundless  ;   and  o'er  all  creation 
Works  its  miracles.     So  Pygmalion  once 
Woke  the  cold  statue  on  its  pedestal, 
To  life  and  rapture.     So  the  rugged  soul, 
Hard  as  the  rifted  rock,  becomes  the  slave. 
The  feeblest  slave  of  Love  ;  and,  like  the  pearl 
In  Cleopatra's  goblet,  seems  to  melt 
On  Beauty's  lips.     So,  when  Apelles  gazed 
Upon  Campaspe's  eyes,  her  peerless  image, 
Instead  of  glowing  on  his  canvass,  bright 
In  all  its  beauty,  stole  into  his  heart, 
And  mock'd  his  feeble  pencil. 

Love  in  the  soul,  not  bold  and  confident,  , 

But,  like  Aurora,  trembles  into  being  ; 

And  with  faint  flickering,  and  uncertain  beams, 

Gives  notice  to  th'  awakening  world  within  us, 

Of  the  full  blazing  orb  th  it  soon  shall  rise, 

And  kindle  all  its  passions.     Then  begin 

Sorrow  and  joy  :  unutterable  joy. 

And  rapturous  sorrow.     Then  the  world  is  nothing  ; 

Pleasure  is  nothing  ;  sufl'eriiig  is  nothing  ; 

Ambition,  riches,  praise,  power,  all  arc  nothing ; 

Love  rules  and  reigns  despotic  and  alone. 

Then,  Oh  !  the  shape  of  majric  loveliness, 

He  conjures  up  before  us,  in  her  form 

Is  perfect  symmetry.     Her  swan-like  gait. 

As  she  glides  by  us,  like  a  lovely  dream, 

Seems  not  of  earth.     From  her  bright  eye  the  soul 

fiOoks  out ;  and,  like  the  topmost  gem  o'  the  heap, 

Shows  the  Mine's  wealth  within.     Upon  her  face., 

As  on  a  lovely  landscape,  shade  and  sunlight 

Play  as  strong  feeling  sways  ;  now  her  eye  flashe.s 


•ilS  ORIGINAL    TALES,     POEMS,    ETC. 

A  beam  of  rapture  ;  now,  lets  drop  a  tear  ; 
And  now,  upon  her  brow — as  when  the  Rainbow 
Rears  its  fair  arch  in  Heaven, —  Peace  sits,  and  gilds 
The  sweet  drops  as  they  fall.     The  soul  of  mind 
Dwells  in  her  voice,  and  her  soft,  spiritual  tones 
Sink  in  the  heart,  soothing  its  cares  away  ; 
As  Halcyons  brood  upon  the  troubled  wave, 
And  charm  it  into  calmness.     When  she  weeps, 
Iler  tears  are  like  the  waters  upon  which 
Love's  mother  rose  to  Heaven.     E'en  her  sighs, 
Although  they  speak  the  troubles  of  her  soul. 
Breathe  of  its  sweotness  ;  as  the  wind  that  shakes 
The  cedar's  boughs,  becomes  impregnated 
With  its  celestial  odours. 

****** 


A  THOUGHT. 


The  shadow  we  pursue  still  flees  us, 
Fast  pacing  as  we  faster  pace  : 

That  which  we  flee  from  will  not  ease  us, 
By  pausing  in  the  fearful  race. 

Thus,  Pleasure,  vainly  we  implore  thee 
To  stay  thy  flight,  and  longer  bloom  ; 

And  thus.  Oh  Death  !  we  flee  before  thee, 
But  only  flee  into  the  tomb  ! 


EPIGRAM. 
To  a  Great  Beauty. 


Believe  me,  my  corpulent  Fair, 

T  love  your  fat  cheeks  and  full  face  ; 

Oh  my  heart !  your  eyes  enkindle  love  there^ 
And  1  sink  in  your  melting  embrace. 

The  poor  buzzing  fly  does  the  same, 
While  yet  inexperienced  and  callow  : 

First  burns  his  bright  wings  in  the  flame, 
And  then,— tumbles  into  the  tallow ! 


FliOSK    ANI>    POETR\. 

ORIGINALLY  PRINTED  IN  VARIOUS  PERIODICAL  PUBLIC AXIOKi?, 

I 
AISD  NEVER  BEIORE  COLLECTED. 


Ec 


JV/iss  VorUx.    A  charming  nosegay !  All  exotics,  I  declare  i 

Jessy.  No,  Madam,  neglected  wild-flowers ;  I  took  them  from  their 
bed  of  wieds,  bestowed  care  on  their  culture,  and  by  transplanting  them 
to  a  more  genial  soil,  they  have  flourished  with  luxuriant  strength  and 
beauty. 

Miss  Vortex.     A  pretty  amusement ! 

Jessy.  And  it  seemed,  Madam,  to  convey  this  lesson  :  not  to  despise 
the  lowly  mind,  but  rather,  with  fostering  hand,  to  draw  it  from  its  chill 
obscurity,  that,  like  these  humble  flowers,  it  might  grow  rich  in  worth 
and  native  energy." 

Morton's  "  Cure  for  the  heart-ague." 


THE  VALLEY   OF  SERVOZ. 

A  SAVOYARD  TALE. 


Servoz  !  sweet  Servoz  !  there  is  not  a  vale 
On  earth's  green  bosom  nursed,  so  beautiful 
As  thou  !    How  lovely  yon  cerulean  sky 
Glittering  with  blue  and  gold,  and  all  the  charms 
It  canoi>ies.     The  purple  vines  which  feed 
On  thy  rich  veins  ;  the  flowers  whose  fragrant  breath 
Satiate  the  sense  with  sweetness  ;  the  tall  groves 
With  their  eternal  whisperings  in  thine  ear, 
Of  blessedness  and  joy ;  thy  guardian  fence 
Of  hills  which  o'er  thee  rise,  Alp  over  Alp, 
As  though  each  peer'd  above  his  fellow,  anxious 
To  snatch  a  glance  at  thee ;  and  sweeter  still, 
Thy  vale's  deep  quiet,  which  no  sound  disturbs, 
Save  the  sweet  brawling  of  the  silver  Arve  ; 
The  wild  bee's  hum  ;  the  grasshopper's  shrill  note  ; 
And  distant  tinglings  mingled  with  the  lay 
Which  the  swarth  peasant  o'er  the  furrow  chaunts, 
Echoed  by  village  maids.     But  most  I  love 
Thy  churchyard's  grassy  precincts  :   in  such  spots, 
While  the  foot  rambles,  the  soul  treasures  up 
Truth's  holiest  lessons  ;  and  as  the  green-sward 
Springs  freshest  over  graves,  so  there  the  heart 
Brings  forth  its  kindliest  feelings,  and  distils 
Dews  precious  as  the  drops  which  fall  from  heaven. 

Henky  Neeie. 


It  was  in  the  Summer  of  the  year  1820  that,  at  the 
close  of  a  fine  July  day,  I  found  myself,  for  the  first  time, 
in  the  village  of  Servoz.  This  is  a  beautiful,  quiet  group 
of  cottages,  deposited,  if  I  may  use  the  term,  in  the  bosom 
of  the  valley  from  which  it  takes  its  name,  in  one  of  the 
most  romantic  and  secluded  parts  of  Savoy.  It  is  impos- 
sible for  language  to  do  justice  to  the  delightful  and  varied 


2^0  MISCELLANEOUS 

scenery  which  surrounds  it.  That  peculiar  characteristic 
of  Alpine  views,  the  union  of  wildncss  with  fertility,  is 
here  exhibited  in  a  surprising  degree.  The  valley  seems 
absolutely  saturated  with  the  sweetness  and  fecundity  of 
Nature.  Flowers  of  the  most  brilliant  hues  and  enchant- 
ing (ragraiu-e,  and  iruits  of  the  most  delicious  flavour, 
abound  in  every  part;  in  the  middle  is  seen  the  river 
Arve,  in  some  places  leaping  and  foaming  over  the  rocks 
by  which  its  course  is  impeded,  and  in  others  quietly  wa- 
tering the  valley.  All  around  rise  gigantic  hills,  the  bases 
of  which  are  clothed  with  wines ;  while  midway  extend 
enormous  forests,  and  on  their  sunnnits  is  a  mantle  of 
everlasting  snow.  At  the  time  at  which  I  was  entering 
the  village,  the  whole  scene  was  surmounted  by  a  clear, 
blue  sky,  of  whose  glorious  tints  those  who  have  never 
travelled  out  of  England  cannot  have  the  faintest  concep- 
tion ;  and  the  setting  sun  had  thrown  its  own  radiant  hues 
upon  Mont  Blanc ;  whose  summit,  even  while  I  gazed 
upon  it,  berame  suddenly  changed  from  a  brilliant  white 
to  a  gorgeous  red,  and  *'sunset,"  as  Lord  Byron  expresses 
it,  "  into  rose-hues  saw  it  wrought."  This  gradually  faded 
away,  exhibiting,  as  the  sun  declined,  the  most  exquisite 
variety  of  colour,  until  the  brilliant  white,  which  can  be 
com[)ared  to  nothing  so  well  as  to  molten  silver,  resumed 
its  original  dominion. 

There  is  much  truth  in  the  maxim  of  Rousseau,  that 
"  Oil  s'exerce  a  voir  comme  a  sentir,  ou  plutot  une  vue 
cxquise  n'est  qu'un  sentiment  delicat  et  fin."  Certainly, 
the  same  scenes  excite  veiy  different  emotions  in  different 
minds ;  and  even  in  the  same  mind  at  different  moments. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing,  I  felt 
as  fully  persuaded  as  ever  Sterne  did,  that  I  had  a  soul: 
and,  like  him,  could  have  defied  all  the  materialists  in  the 
world  to  persuade  me  to  the  contrary.  On  arriving  at 
such  a  place,  the  first  objects  of  my  research  are  the  vil- 
lage inn,  and  the  churchyard  ;  for  ,fiom  those  places  I 
gather  the  history  of  the  spot,  and  get  an  insight  into  the 
minds  and  manners  of  the  inhabitants.  I  see  them  in  the 
house  of  mirth,  and  in  the  house  of  mourning  ;  I  mix  with 
(hem  in  the  pleasures,  and  in  the  business  of  life ;  and  I 
learn  how  they  support  the  intrusions  of  death,  and  what 
are  their  hopes  beyond  the  regions  of  mortalitv.     On  this 


i-ROSE    AND    POETRY.  221 

occasion,  not  finding  much  to  interest  me  at  the  Inn,  I 
meiel}  to>k  some  slight  refreshment,  and,  disencumbering 
myself  lioin  the  staff  an^l  wallet  with  wljich  I  had  per- 
formed III}  juiiine},  proceeded  to  take  a  ramble  among 
the  tombs.  Tht-y  were  many  and  interesting.  Here 
rested  the  patiiarch  of  the  village,  gathered  full  of  years 
and  honours  to  his  fathers.  There,  a  modest  stone  told  a 
simple  but  melanchol}  tale  of  an  unfortunate  traveller 
ingulfed  in  a  glacier,  as  he  was  travelling  these  lonely, 
but  dangerous,  regi  ns  without  a  guide.  Here  the  soldier 
rested  from  the  battle,  and  the  chamois-hunter  from  the 
chase.  The  gay  ceased  to  smile,  and  the  unhappy  forgot 
to  weep;  Death  garnered  up  his  harvest  here,  and  me- 
thought  that  there  was  a;;  ong  it  food  that  might  be  whole- 
some and  invigorating  for  the  mind. 

Among  those  memorials  ot  the  dead,  there  was  one  by 
■which  I  found  my  steps  irresistibly  arrested :  this  was  a 
heap  of  turf,  surrounded  by  beds  of  flowers.  It  was  un- 
distinguished by  any  stone  ;  but  a  wooden  cross,  of  the 
rudest  workmanship,  was  raised  upon  it,  on  which  hung  a 
chaplet  of  lilies.  The  cross  was  evidently  some  years  old, 
but  the  lilies  were  fresh  gathered,  and  blooming ;  and  some 
young  girls  were  watering  the  flower-beds  which  surround- 
ed the  grave.  From  them,  and  from  others  of  the  neigh- 
bours, I  gathepfd  the  history  of  this  tomb.  It  was  a  sim- 
ple tale :  but  I  have  seen  tears  raining  plenteously  at  its 
recital,  from  some  of  the  brightest  eyes  which  ever  bor- 
rowed Irom  southern  suns  their  lustre,  and  their  warmth  ; 
and  big  drops  roll  down  tiie  faded  cheeks  of  age  like 
juices  forced  from  fruits  which  seemed  withering  upon 
their  stalks. 

If  the  rustic  annalists  of  the  valley  of  Servoz  may  be 
credited,  there  nevei'  moved  upon  the  earth  a  being  more 
exquisitely  beautiful  than  Annette  de  la  Cluse.  Her  form 
was  tall,  and  moulded  to  the  finest  symmetry;  her  eyes 
black  and  sparkling;  and  her  hair  of  the  same  colour, 
and  almost  of  the  same  biightness.  Some  of  the  rural 
connoisseurs  of  tlie  village  considered  her  face  too  pale  : 
as  it  has  been  described  to  me,  it  must  have  been  beauti- 
fully fair ;  but  the  sun  of  that  climate,  which  usually  marks 
the  daughters  of  the  valley  for  his  own,  had  so  slightly 
tinned  her  cheeks  with  the  rose,  that  it  was  onlv  in  moments 


222  MISCELLANEOUS 

of  extraordinary  animation  and  feeling  that  it  was  percep- 
tible ;  and  during  the  last  year  of  her  life  it  entirely  va- 
nished. Her  disposition  was  pensive,  but  far  from  gloomy ; 
and  during  the  little  village  festivals,  with  which  the  Romish 
calendars  abound,  a  more  gay  and  hearty  laugh  was  sel- 
dom heard  than  Annette's.  Still,  she  loved  solitude  and 
seclusion ;  and  although  literature  had  not  at  that  time 
unfolded  its  treasures  to  the  valley,  yet  her  mind  appeared 
to  be  informed  by  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  the  scenes 
which  surrounded  her,  and  she — 

"  Found  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing." 

To  these  qualities  were  added,  a  sweetness  and  kindness 
of  heart  which  endeared  her  to  every  one,  and  which  con- 
tinues to  keep  her  memory  jaously  cherished  to  the  pre- 
sent moment. 

With  such  attractions  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that 
by  the  time  that  Annette  had  attained  her  seventeenth 
year  her  admirers  should  be  numerous.  Her  course  of 
studies  not  having  included  the  science  of  coquetry,  it  was 
not  long  before  she  avowed  that  her  atfections  were  fixed 
upon  Victor  de  St.  Foix ;  and  those  worthy  neighbours, 
who  there,  as  in  more  polished  districts,  kindly  took  upon 
themselves  the  office  of  deciding  upon  the  fitness  of  the 
match,  were  imanifnous  in  their  approval  of  her  choice. 
Victor  was  Annette's  senior  by  only  a  kw  months,  and  his 
taste  and  habits  were,  in  most  particulars,  congenial  with 
her  own.  It  is  true  that  he  possessed  the  more  masculine 
habits  of  enterprise  and  intrepidity :  none  could  track  the 
chamois  to  his  haunts  among  the  Alps  with  a  keener  eye, 
and  a  surer  foot ;  and  in  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  he 
was  rivalled  only  by  the  mountain  rivulet.  The  traveller 
who  iaquired  for  a  hardy  and  intelligent  guide  was  always 
recommended  to  Victor ;  and  when  circumstances  of  dan- 
ger or  difficulty  occasioned  the  villagers  to  rally  together, 
he  was  invariably  among  the  foremost,  and  frequently  filled 
the  post  of  chieftain.  Still  his  heart  found  room  for  the 
softer  emotions,  and  when  at  evening  he  stole  to  Annette's 
side  to  tell  her  some  melancholy  tale  of  the  traveller  over- 
whelmed bv  the  avalanche,  or  lost  amona:  the  torrents; 


PROSE    ANL»    fOETRi.  223 

or,  when  he  warbled,  in  unison  with  her,  some  of  those 
sweet  Savoyard  melodies  which  are  often  heard  among  the 
valleys,  the  tears  would  rush  into  his  eyes,  and  the  hardy 
mountaineer  seemed  metamorphosed  into  a  "  soft  carpet 
knight,"  One  song  which  they  used  to  sing  njost  fre- 
quently together,  and  which  the  villagers  have  distinguished 
by  their  names,  I  transcribe  as  it  was  recited  to  me  by  the 
host  of  my  inn.  The  words  of  the  original,  when  accom- 
panied by  the  simple  and  beautiful  melody  to  which  they 
are  sung,  are  irresistibly  touching  and  affecting.  The  fol- 
lowing version  sinks  infinitely  below  its  prototype,  but  I 
have  endeavoured  to  preserve  the  sentiment : — 

"  For  thee,  Love !  for  thee,  Love  ! 

I  '11  brave  Fate's  sternest  storm  ; 
She  cannot  daunt,  or  chill  the  hearts 

Which  Love  keeps  bold  and  warm  : 
And  when  her  cleuds  are  blackest,  nought         ^ 

But  thy  sweet  self  I  '11  see  ; 
Nor  hear  amidst  the  tempest  aught, 

But  thee,  Love  !  only  thee  ! 

For  thee,  Love  !  for  thee,  Love  1 

My  fond  heart  would  resign 
The  brightest  cup  that  Pleasure  tills, 

And  Pleasure's  wealthiest  mine  ; 
For  Fortune's  smiles  are  vanity, 

And  Fortune's  fade  or  flee  ; 
There  's  purity  and  constancy 

In  thee,  Love!  only  thee  ! 

For  thee.  Love  !  for  thee,  Love  I 

Life's  lowly  vale  1  '11  tread, 
And  aid  thy  steps  the  journey  through, 

Nor  quit  thee  till  I  'm  dead  : 
And  even  then,  round  her  I  love, 

My  shade  shall  hovering  be  ; 
And  warble  notes  from  Heaven  above, 

To  thee,  Love  !  only  thee  !" 

in  this  manner  they  passed  the  morning  of  their  lives, 
until  the  day  arrived  which  had  been  fixed  upon  for  their 
union.     In  such  a  place  as  Servoz  this  was  an  incident  of 


224  MlStEl.LAiNEOUS 

considerable  interest  and  importance ;  and  almost  tlie. 
whole  population  of  the  village,  young  and  old,  contrihuted 
to  swell  the  retinue,  which  proceeded  with  decorous 
hilarity  toward  the  simple,  but  venerable,  (/hurch  of  St. 
Pierre.  A  troop  of  young  girls  advanced  first,  strewing 
flowers  in  the  path  of  the  joyous  procession  ;  these  were 
succeeded  by  some  youthful  peasants  of  the  other  sex,  who 
fdled  the  air  with  rustic,  but  by  no  means  tasteless,  music  ; 
the  bride  followed,  "  blushing  like  the  morning,"  sup- 
ported on  her  right  by  her  aged  mother,  and  on  her  left 
by  the  bridegroom  ;  their  relatives  and  intimate  friends 
came  next,  and  a  numerous  party  of  peasantry  brought 
up  the  rear. 

This  was  on  one  of  those  bright  summer  mornings,  the 
splendours  of  which  the  inhabitants  of  more  northern 
climates  never  behold,  even  in  imagination.  It  was  the 
hushed  and  breathless  hour  of  noon,  and  all  nature  seemed 
reposing  from  the  miridian  heat,  except  the  bridal  party, 
who  were  protected  from  it  by  the  shadow  cast  by  a 
gigantic  Alp  acrosf^  thfir  path.  Suddenly  a  strange  sound 
was  heard  a'nove  them,  like  the  noise  of  an  avalanche,  and 
a  quantity  of  stones  and  rook  descended  up  >n  their  heads, 
without,  however,  producing  any  serious  consequences. 
They  were,  nevertheless,  induced  to  quicken  their  steps, 
but  before  they  had  proceeded  ten  paces  further,  a  tre- 
mendous explosion  like  an  awful  thunder-clap  was  heard. 
The  enormous  Alp  under  which  they  were  walking  was 
seen  rocking  to  and  fro,  like  an  aspen-tree  shaken  by  the 
wind  ;  and  before  the  whole  of  the  party  could  escape 
beyond  its  reach,  it  had  precipitated  itself  into  the  valley, 
and  choked  up  a  little  lake  which  lay  immediately  under 
its  brow  ;  while  huge  blocks  of  granite  were  hurled  about 
in  all  directions,  and  the  dust  produced  by  rocks  thus 
dashed  violently  against  each  other,  concealed  for  awhile 
the  extent  of  the  calamity.  Annette  had  instinctively 
caught  her  mother's  hand,  and  hurried  her  beyond  the 
reach  of  danger ;  but  when  the  party  had  arrived  at  a 
])lace  of  safety,  and  the  tremendous  convulsion  of  nature 
liad  subsided,  the  wailings  of  distress  at  seeing  their  habi- 
tations crushed,  and  their  fields  and  vineyards  laid  deso- 
late, were  many  ;  though  more  were  the  exclamations  of 
joy  at  beholding  that  their  children  and  friends  had  escaped 


PROSE    AND    POETRr.  ,  225 

unhurt.  On  a  sudden  a  heart-rending  shriek  was  heard, 
followed  by  a  fearful  cry  of  "  Where  is  Victor?''  From 
Annette  those  sounds  proceeded,  who,  as  the  cloud  of 
dust  disappeared,  had  cast  a  hasty  glance  around,  and 
perceived,  am  mg  the  groups  who  were  felicitating  each 
other  on  their  escape,  all  but  Victor!  Instantly  the 
whole  party  was  in  motion  ;  the  cloak,  the  hat,  and  some 
of  the  bridal  ornaments  of  Victor  were  found,  while  some 
mangled  reliques  of  his  corpse  told  too  soon,  and  too 
ceitainly,  his  miserable  fate. 

Annette,  who  followed  as  fast  as  her  failing  limbs  would 
allow  her,  heard  their  acclamations  of  despair,  and  sank 
senseless  U[)on  the  earth.     Every  effort  that  kindness  and 
pity  could  suggest  was  used  to  recover  her,  but  for  months 
they  could  scarcely  he  said  to  restore  her  suspended  ani- 
mation ;  for  the   state  of  listless  insanity   in  which  she 
remained  was  much  more  nearly  allied  to  death  than  life. 
At  length,  however,  she  regained  the  use  of  her  corporeal 
powers ;    but,  alas  !    her   mind   had  wandered  from  its 
dwelling.     She  would  often,  after  remaining  inactive  for 
hours  together,  hurry  suddenly  to  the  church,  and  there, 
standmg  before  the  altar,  repeat  that  part  of  the  matrimo- 
nial service  which  is  uttered  l)y  the  bride  ;  then  she  would 
wait  for  a  few  moments  silently,  as  if  expecting  to  hear 
another  voice,  and  at  lenj^ih,  loolcing  round  on  the  empty 
church,   utter  a  dreadfil  groan,   and    hurry  away.     At 
other  rimes  she  would  wander  through  the  churchyard, 
count   over   the  tombs  one   by  one,  and  read   all   the 
inscriptions,  as  if  she  was  seeking  one  which  she  could 
not  find  ;   while  it  was  observed  that  she  was  always  more 
cheerful  after   having   been   employed   in    this    manner. 
"  He  is  not  dead  !     I  shall  see  him  soon  !"  she  would  say  ; 
but  as  her  path  homewards  led  by  the  ruins  of  the  fallen 
mountain,  the  dreadful  recollection  seemed  to  rush  upon 
her  brain,  and  she  was  often  carried  away  from  the  spot 
as   senseless   as   at  first.     The  only   occupation    which 
seemed  to  imi)art  any  tranquillity  to  her  mind  was  singing, 
or  playing  U|)on  her  lute,  those  little  melodies  which  she 
and  Victor   used  to  chant  together.     The  song  which  I 
have    translated    was  her  especial  favourite  ;  and  while 
singing  the  last  verse  she  would  look  upwards,  and,  after 
she  had  finished  it,  remain  silent  for  some  time,  as  if  she 

r  f 


22G  MISCELLANEOUS 

expected  that  the  promise  whieh  it  contains  would  be 
literally  fulfilled,  and  that  she  should  hear  her  lover's  voice 
responsive  to  her  own.  In  her  wanderings  she  was  con- 
tinually penetrating  into  paths  which  were  unknown  to 
the  villagers  generally,  and  some  of  these  are  now  among 
the  most  beautiful  spots  pointed  out  to  the  curious  tra- 
veller. At  length  she  found  a  little  valley,  composed  of 
only  one  green  field,  and  one  gurgling  rill  which  stole 
through  it,  and  surrounded  by  picturescjue  rocks,  which 
were  clothed  with  a  profusion  of  beautiful  trees;  larches, 
firs,  pines,  and  others  of  every  imaginable  form  and  hue. 
She  sat  down  by  the  margin  of  the  little  stream,  and  sang 
her  favourite  ballad.  The  first  two  verses  she  warbled,  or 
rather  recited,  in  a  low  mournful  tone,  but  when  she  came 
to  the  last,  she  raised  her  voice  to  the  highest  compass  ; 
and  her  tones,  which  were  always  beautiful,  were  described 
by  those  who  followed  her  unseen,  at  a  short  distance,  to 
be,  on  this  occasion,  of  seraphic  sweetness.  As  she  ele- 
vated her  voice,  all  the  echoes  with  which  that  romantic 
spot  abounds,  were  awakened  ;  and  every  rock  warbled, 
as  it  were,  a  response  to  her  song.  Now  the  sound  rolled 
over  her  head  deep  and  sonorous ;  now  it  became  softened 
and  mellowed  among  the  hills  ;  now  it  returned  as  loudly 
and  distinctly  as  at  first ;  and  at  length  died  away  in  a 
faint  and  distant  whisper.  Annette  clasped  her  hands  in 
rapture  ;  her  eyes  were  raised  to  heaven  ;  tears,  but  tears 
of  joy,  stole  down  her  cheek ;  her  beautiful  face,  which 
sorrow,  and  sickness,  and  insanity,  had  robbed  of  many 
of  its  charms,  seemed  now  more  beautiful  than  ever, 
and  her  whole  form  appeared  animated  by  something 
which  was  more  than  earthly.  "  'Tis  he  ! — 'tis  Victor 
speaks ! — 

'  Thou  warblest  notes  from  Heaven  above, 
To  me,  Love  !  only  me  !' 

My  love  !  my  life  !  where  art  thon  ? — I  have  sought  thee 
long  ;  my  brain  is  strangely  troubled,  but  now  we  will  part 
no  more. — I  see  thee  beckon  me  ! — Victor  !  my  love  ! — 
I  come  ! — I  come  !"  The  echoes  answered  "  Come  ! — 
come  !"  Annette  lifted  her  hands  once  more  to  Hea- 
ven ;  then  sank  upon  the  earth,  and  her  Spirit  fled  for 
ever ! 


PKOSK   AND    POETKV.  227 

Siuce  that  time  the  spot  on  which  she  died  has  gone  by 
the  name  of  "Annette's  Vale."  The  villagers  think  it 
haunted,  and  never  enter  it  but  with  uncovered  head  and 
naked  feet ;  but  more  from  reverence  than  fear,  for  who 
would  fear  the  gentle  spirit  of  Annette  de  la  Cluse  ?  The 
chamois  which  escapes  mto  tuis  place  is  in  a  sanctuary  ; 
and  the  flowers  which  grow  there  are  never  plucked  but 
to  strew  upon  Annette's  grave  ;  in  every  murmur  of  the 
wind,  in  every  rustling  of  the  leaves,  are  heard  the  voices 
of  her  and  her  lover;  and,  aboe  all,  the  echoes  among 
those  rocks  aie  listened  to  with  av/e,  as  the  songs  or  the 
conversations  of  Victor  and  Annette  ! 

"New  European  Magazine,"  1822. 


THE   POET'S  DREAM, 


Oh  !  then  1  see  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  yon.~ 

^»:akspeare. 


It  was  in  the  forenoon  of  a  sultry  autumnal  day,  in  the 
year  1638,  that  a  person  apparent)}  about  five  and  thirty 
years  of  a^^e,  handsomely  though  noi  gorgeously  clad  in 
the  costume  of  the  country,  and  mounted  upon  a  mule, 
was  seen  traversing  the  wild  and  romantic  road  which 
leads  from  Sienna  to  Rome.  A  slight  glance  at  the  tra- 
veller would  enable  the  intelligent  observer  to  discover  in 
him  "  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men."  His 
forehead  was  high  and  pale  ;  and  his  hair,  of  a  light  flaxen 
colour,  flowed  in  rich  ringlets  over  his  shoulders.  Akhough 
his  complexion  was  considerably  tinged  by  the  southern 
suns  which  he  had  encountered  in  the  course  of  his  travels, 
it  was  evidently  originally  very  fair,  if  not  pale ;  and, 
together  with  the  oval  face  and  bright  blue  eyes,  denoted 
a  native  of  a  more  northern  region  than  that  which  he  was 
traversing.  Mis  countenance  was  singularly  beautiful, 
and  its  mild  and  beneficent  expression  was  shaded,  but 
not  impaired,  by  the  pensive  air  which,  apparently,  deep 
study,  or  perhaps  early  misfortune,  had  cast  over  it.  His 
height  was  rather  above  the  njiddle  stature  ;  and  his  foini 
displayed  that  perfection  of  symmetry  which  we  usually 
look  for  in  vain  in  nature,  but  mark  with  admiration  in  the 
works  of  Phidias  and  of  Raffaelle.  He  was  followed  by 
a  servant, also  mounted  upon  a  mule,  and  both  were  taking 
the  high  road  to  the  "eternal  City,"  from  which  they  were 
distant  about  two  days'  journey. 

The  day  was  sultry,  and  as  the  road  then  wound  among 
some  of  the  most  precipitous  and  difficult  passes  of  the 


PliOSE   AiND    roLIRi.  229 

Apennines,  the  travellers  appeared  to  experience  consi- 
derable fatigue.  It  was  with  no  slight  degree  of  pleasure, 
therefore,  that  they  descried,  at  a  small  distance  onwards, 
a  thick  forest  of  pines,  which  promised  a  shelter  from  the 
noontide  heat,  as  well  as  an  op[)ortunity  of  exijloring  the 
contents  of  their  wallet,  for  the  purpose  of  procuring 
refreshment.  Having  arrived  there,  they  dismounted  ; 
and  their  morning's  meal,  consisting  of  bread,  fruit,  cheese, 
and  wine,  was  soon  spread  before  them  ;  and  nearly  as 
soon  disappeared  before  such  appetites,  as  a  long  fast  and 
a  fatiguing  journey  never  fail  to  create.  The  superior 
traveller  then  having  desired  his  servant  to  lead  the  mules 
to  a  little  distance,  prepared  to  take  a  short  slumber  pre- 
vious to  resuming  his  journey. 

He  had  not  long  resigned  himself  to  sleep  before  his 
ever  restless  brain  began  to  teem  with  eertam  vague  and 
shadowy  forms,  which  at  length  settled  into  a  vision  of 
consummate  beauty.  He  fancied  that  he  beheld  a  beau- 
tiful female  figure  bending  over  and  gazing  at  him,  while 
her  features  were  expressive  of  the  utmost  astonishment 
and  delight.  Once  she  appeared  to  speak,  and  the  wonder 
with  which  he  beheld  the  exquisite  loveliness  of  her  form 
and  features,  was  lost  in  that  excited  by  the  ravishing 
melody  of  her  voice.  He  extended  his  hand  toward  her, 
and  endeavoured  to  grasp  her  own ;  she  gently  eluded  him, 
smiled,  and  dropping  a  small  scroll  of  paper,  vanished 
from  his  sight,  while  our  traveller,  with  the  etfort  which  he 
made  to  reach  it,  suddenly  awoke. 

He  started  on  his  feet,  scarcely  believing  that  what  he 
had  seen  could  have  been  a  dream,  so  strong  and  vivid  was 
the  impression  which  it  had  made  upon  his  senses ;  but 
his  wonder  was  wound  up  to  the  highest  pitch  at  per- 
ceiving a  scroll,  exactly  resembling  that  which  he  bad 
seen  in  his  dream,  lying  at  his  feet.  He  snatched  it  up 
eagerly,  and  read  the  following  lines  : — 

"  Ocelli  stclli  morlali 
Ministri  di  iniei  inali 
Che'n  sogno  anco  mostratc, 
Che'l  inio  morir  bramate. 
So  cliiusi  in'  uccidete, 
Aperti  die  farete  !" 


230  .MISCELLANEOUS 

which,  ill  our  own  less  mellifluous  language,  would  read 
nearly  thus  : — 

"  Eyes  !  ye  mortal  stars  which  shed 
Fatal  influence  on  my  head, 
Bidding  me  in  omens  know, 
That  to  you  my  death  f  owe, 
If  when  closed  ye  've  power  to  slay, 
Hide  me  from  your  opening  ray  !" 

Douhting  the  evidence  of  his  senses,  he  read  the  scroll 
over  again  and  again,  before  he  thought  of  calling  his  ser- 
vant, and  endeavouring  to  gather  from  him  such  particu- 
lars as  might  assist  in  unravelling  the  mystery.  The  ac- 
count which  he  received  from  his  domestic  only  involved 
him  in  new  perplexities.  From  him  he  learned  that, 
during  his  slumber,  a  carriage,  containing  two  elegantly 
dressed  females,  had  stopped  close  to  the  place^vhere  his 
master  was  sleeping  ;  that  the  youngest  of  the  two,  whose 
description,  as  related  by  the  servant,  corresponded  in  the 
most  minute  particulars  with  the  figure  which  he  had  seen 
in  his  dream,  alighted  ;  and  after  gazing  for  some  time 
upon  the  handsome  sleeper,  addressed  certain  interroga- 
tories to  the  domestic,  which,  from  his  ignorance  of  the 
language  in  which  they  were  conveyed,  he  was  unable 
either  to  comprehend,  or  answer ;  that  she  then  hastily 
wrote  some  lines  upon  a  scroll,  which  shejthrew  at  his 
master's  feet ;  and,  seeing  the  latter  move,  re-entered  the 
carriage,  which  immediately  drove  off  with  the  utmost  ra- 
pidity. 

"  You  would  know  her  again,  Horatio  V  inquired  the 
wondering  traveller. 

"Ay,  Sir,"  returned  the  other,  "even  were  her  beautiful 
face  veiled  ;  let  her  but  utter  three  words,  and  Tshall  re- 
member  her  voice.  Not  even  when  I  saw  the  Lady  Alice 
Egerton  play  in  the  masque  at  Ludlow  Castle,  and  heard 
her  call  upon  echo  in  her  song,  till  I  wondered  how  so 
sweet  an  invitation  could  be  resisted,  did  I  feel  my  soul 
stealing  out  at  my  ears  so  delightfully  ;  for  even  she,  cra- 
ving your  honour's  pardon,  was  but  a  chirrupping  wren  to 
this  Italian  nightingale." 


PKOSE    AND    I'OETRY.  2S1 

"  Saddle  the  mules  instantly,"  interrupted  his  master, 
"  let  us  lose  no  time  in  ovcrtakins;  her." 

"  Oh  Sir  !  that  were  a  fruitlcs'^^  chase,  for  the  carriage 
has  had  a  long  start  before  us,  besides  being  drawn  by  four 
of  the  fleetest  horses  in  haly." 

"  Nevertheless,  speed  will  do  no  harm,  Horatio  ;  and 
unless  we  travel  at  a  quicker  pace  than  that  at  which  we 
have  been  proceeding  this  morning,  I  shall  scarcely  reach 
Rome  in  time  for  tiie  Cardinal  Barberini's  Concert  to- 
morrow evening." 

They  accordingly  resumed  their  journey,  the  ci-devant 
sleeper  much  marvelling  at  the  extraordinary  incident  of 
the  day,  and  puzzling  his  brains,  for  he  was  deeply  learned 
in  metaphysics,  to  account  for  the  phenomenon  by  which 
that  which  was  hidden  from  his  visual  organs,  was  revealed 
to  his  "  mind's  eye"  during  the  hour  of  slumber.  He 
■was,  however,  unable  to  arrive  at  any  more  satisfactory 
conclusion  than  that  contained  in  two  lines  of  his  favour- 
ite author,  which  he  uttered  aloud,  turning  round  to  his 
valet, — 

"  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy." 

They  now  travelled  with  the  utmost  expedition,  hut,  as 
our  readers  will  have  guessed  from  the  information  of 
Horatio,  without  overtaking  the  fair  and  mysterious  fugi- 
tive. Nothing  occurred  during  tlie  remainder  of  their 
journey  beyond  the  usual  routine  of  eating,  drinking, 
sleeping,  and  travelling;  and  sometini's  the  necessity, 
however  unpleasant,  of  dispensing  with  the  three  former 
items,  until  they  arrived  at  Rome.  Here  our  traveller's 
fust  care  was  to  (ind  out  the  residence  of  his  friend  Hol- 
stcnius,  keeper  of  tho  Vatican  library,  and  with  whom  he 
had  become  acquainted  at  Oxford,  where  the  Italian  had 
resided  for  thre<'  years 

The  meeting  of  the  friends  was  cordial  and  affectionate. 
"  But  we  have  no  time  to  lose,"  said  Holstcnius,  "  the 
Cardinal's  Concert  has  already  commenced,  and  he  is  in 
the  utmost  anxiety  to  see  you  :  you  will  fmd  there  a  distin- 
guished party,  who  are  drawn  together  principally  in  the 
expectation  of  meeting  you." 


232  JllSOELLANEOUS 

"  I  fear,''  said  the  Englishman,  half  smiling,  and  at  the 
same  time  lowering  his  brow,  as  to  the  present  day  is  done 
by  literary  men,  when  they  feel,  or  atfect  to  feel,  offended 
at  being  made  what  they  call  "  a  show"  of;  "  1  fear  that 
the  attraction  will  cease  when  the  cause  of  it  is  seen  and 
known.  But  who  are  these,  friend  Hulstenius,  to  whom 
I  am  to  be  exhibited  this  evening  ?*' 

"Among  others,  to  the  Marquis  Villa,  who  has  just 
arrived  from  Na[)les,''  said  the  .stlier 

"What!  Manso?"  exclaimed  the  Englishman,  his 
feature**  brightening  as  he  spoke,  "the  friend  of  the  illus- 
trious Tasso  ?' 

"  The  same,"  resumed  Holstenius ;  "  also  the  Poets, 
Selvaggi  and  Salsilli ;  the  famous  Grotius,  the  Swedish 
Ambassador  to  the  Court  of  France,  who  is  here  on  a 
visit  to  his  Eminence,  and  whom  I  believe  you  met  at 
Paris;  the  Dakc  de  Pagliano  ;  and  the  Count  di  Vivaldi. 
Adriana  of  Mantua,  Sister  to  the  Poet  Basil,  and  her 
daughter  Leonora  Baroni.  who  are  reported  to  be  the  finest 
singers  in  the  world,  have  also  arrived  at  Rome  expressly 
to  be  present  at  this  entertainment." 

The  momentary  gloom  which  had  gathered  on  the 
Englishman's  features,  was  immediately  dispersed ;  he 
expressed  the  utmost  delight  at  the  prospect  of  mingling 
with  the  lofty  spirits  who  were  assembled  under  the  Car- 
dinal Barberini's  roof;  and  after  having  suitably  attired 
himself^  the  friends  were  not  long  in  finding  their  way  to 
the  Cardinal's  Palace, 

Here  they  found  the  illustrious  owner,  although  nephew 
to  the  ruling  Pontiff,  and  possessing,  under  him,  the  whole 
delegated  sovereignty  of  Rome,  anxiously  looking  among 
the  crowd  at  the  door  for  his  transalpine  guest.  When 
he  recognised  Holstenius  and  his  friend,  he  darted  out, 
and  grasping  the  latter  by  the  hand,  heartily  bade  him 
welcome.  He  then  led  him  up  a  magnificent  staircase 
lined  with  attendants  in  the  most  gorgeous  liveries,  and 
blazing  with  innumerable  lamps,  until  he  arrived  at  a 
splendid  saloon,  in  which  the  distinguished  company  were 
assembled.  Here,  after  a  momentary  pause,  he  elevated 
his  voice  and  announced  in  an  exulting  tone  to  the  anxious 
auditory,  the  presence  of  "il  Signor  Milton." 

"Onor  a  I'altissimoPoeta!"  exclaimed  a  hundred  voices. 


;■ 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  233 

Fair  hands  strewed  flowers  upon  his  head,  and  noble  palms 
were  extended  emulous  of  his  grasp.  The  learned  and 
the  famous,  the  rich,  and  the  young,  and  the  beautiful,  all 
crowded  with  expressions  of  admiration  and  delight  around 
the  illustrious  Englishman.  The  Poet  Salsilli  was  the 
first  who  gained  possession  of  Milton's  hand,  and  fixing 
upon  him  a  steadfast  look,  he  recited  in  a  loud  voice  the 
following  lines  : — 


<i 


Cede  Meles  ;  cedat  de{)ressa  Mincius  urna, 

Sebetus  Tassum  desinat  usque  loqui. 
At  Thamesis  victor  curictis  ferat  altior  undas  ; 

Nam  parte,  Milto,  par  tribus  unus  erit." 

"  Meles  and  Mincius  !  now  more  humbly  glide, 
Tasso's  Sebetus  !  now  resign  thy  pride  ; 
Supreme  of  rivers,  Thames  henceforth  shall  be, 
His  Milton  makes  him  equal  to  the  three." 

At  this  unexpected  sally,  the  place  rang  with  applauses, 
which  had  scarcely  subsided  before  a  voice  fiom  the  othei' 
end  of  the  room,  which  was  recognised  to  be  that  oi  the 
Poet  Selvaggi,  exclaimed  : — 

"  Gra^cia  Maeonidem,  jactet  sibi  Roma  Maronem  ; 
Anglia  Miltonum  jactat  utrique  parem." 

"  Greece  !  vaunt  your  Homer's,  Rome  !  your  Maro's  fame, 
England  in  Milton  boasts  an  equal  name." 

The  thunders  of  applause  were  redoubled,  and  Milton 
began  to  feel  himself  under  some  embarrassment,  as  to  the 
mode  of  returning  such  extraordinary  and  unexpected 
compliments,  when  he  was  relieved  by  his  entertainer, 
begging  him  to  seat  himself  by  him,  and  entering  into  close 
conversation  with  him. 

"  I  am  told,  Mr.  Milton,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "that  you 
are  a  proficient  in  the  divine  art  of  music." 

"  I  can  claim  but  a  slender  acquaintance  with  the 
science,"  answered  the  poet ;  "  but  I  Ijave  ever  been  pe- 
culiarl}  susceptible  of  its  power,  and  have  found  my  feel- 
ings swayed  by  it  in  an  extraordinarv  manner,  upon  more 

O  "■ 


234  MISCELLANEOUS 

than  one  occasion.  To  my  father,  who  was  deeply  ac- 
complished in  the  science,  and  to  my  friend  and  country- 
man, Henry  Lawes,  whose  fame,  I  believe,  is  not  unknown 
even  in  tliis  classic  land  of  song,  I  am  indebted  for  what 
Httle  Icnowledne  I  may  possess." 

"Nay,  nay,  Mr.  Milton,  your  knowledge  is  somewhat 
greater  than  you  will  allow.  The  celebrated  Leonora 
Baroni,  who  has  just  left  the  room,  but  will  soon  re-enter 
it,  had,  shortly  before  your  arrival,  delighted  the  company, 
by  the  exquisite  manner  in  which  she  sang  a  divine  me- 
lody composed  by  herself,  to  suit  some  still  diviner  words 
of  yours,  which  fully  prove  that  you  have  the  soul  and  the 
feelings  of  the  mosi  inspired  musician."  He  then  recited 
with  energy  and  proprifty,  although  with  a  strong  foreign 
accent,  the  following  lines  : — 

"  Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy  ! 

Sphere-born  harmonious  sisters,  voice  and  verse  ! 
Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mix'd  power  employ, 

Dead  thiiigfs  with  inbreath'd  sense  able  to  pierce  ; 
And  to  our  liijjli- raised  phantasy  present 
That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  consent, 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-colour'd  throne 
To  him  that  sits  thereon, 

With  saintly  shout  and  solemn  jubilee  ; 
Where  the  bright  Seraphim  in  burning  row. 
Their  loud  uplifted  angel-trumpets  blow  ; 
And  the  cherubic  host  in  thousand  quires, 
Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires  ; 
With  those  just  spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms, 
Ilynms  devout,  and  holy  psalms, 

Singing  everlastingly !" 

The  conversation  between  the  Cardinal  and  his  illustri- 
ous guest  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Adriana, 
of  Mantua,  and  her  daughter,  Leonora  Baroni.  Milton's 
heart  thiobbed,  and  he  drew  his  breath  thickly,  as  he 
fancied  that  he  recognised  in  the  figure  of  the  latter,  the 
fair  one  who  had  brightened  his  dreams  among  the  Apen- 
nines. The  first  glimpse  of  her  face  confirmed  him  in 
this  idea,  and  he  was  about  to  rush  to  the  harp  at  which 
she  had  seated  herself,  and  the  snings  of  which  she  was 
trying,  when  a  moment's  reflection  convinced  him  of  the 


PROSE    AND    POETKV.  235 

iinproprief^  of  such  a  proceeding.  The  resemblance, 
might  be  accidental,  or  it  might  be  produced  merel)  by 
his  own  heated  imagination.  At  length  she  struck  the 
strings,  and  played  a  low  sweet  prelude  with  such  exqui- 
site delicacy,  and  yet  such  riiasteriy  execution,  that  the 
■whole  company  were  entranced  in  wonder,  and  none  more 
so  than  the  poet.  She  then  raised  her  voice,  whose  di- 
vine tones  thrilled  to  his  very  soul.  The  air  was  her  own 
composition,  and  of  matchless  beauty  ;  but  what  was  his 
astonishment  at  recognising  in  the  poetry  to  which  it 
was  adapted,  the  very  words  which  were  inscribed  upon 
the  scroll.  He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  ap|)roached  the 
beautiful  songstress.  Like  his  own  Adam,  he  "bung  over 
her  enamoured."  He  forgijt  his  h^-pes,  his  and)iiion,  his 
travels,  the  place  in  which  he  was  ;  he  forgot  even  the 
extraordinary  way  in  which  he  first  became  acquainted 
with  her.  The  recollection  of  all  was  lost  in  the  intense 
delight  with  which  he  listened  to  the  flood  of  melody  which 
she  was  pouring  forth.  At  length  she  came  to  the  con- 
cluding verses  of  the  Madrigal : — 

'•'■  Se  chiusi  m'uccidete, 
Aperti  che  farete  I"  - 

and  as  she  warbled  the  last  line,  turned  her  head,  an(f 
beheld  the  bright  blue  eyes  of  the  poet,  as  though  his 
whole  soul  was  concentrated  in  those  two  oibs,  gazing 
upon  her.  A  slight  tremor  shook  her  frume  ;  a  deadly 
paleness  overspread  her  face  ;  and  she  sank  senseless  upon 
the  ground. 

This  incident  created  general  confusion.  The  whole 
company  crowded  round  the  harp,  and  beheld  the  beautiful 
Leonora,  pale  and  senseless,  in  the  arms  of  the  poet, 
while  her  mother  was  chafing  her  temples  in  fin  agony  of 
distress.  At  length  Milton  and  Adriana  succeeded  in 
conveying  her  out  of  the  room  into  the  open  air.  It  was 
a  blight  and  beautiful  night.  The  moon  was  riding  high, 
shedding  a  mild  pale  light  upon  the  waters  of  the  Tiber, 
the  venerable  monuments  of  the  Eternal  City  which 
frowned  upon  its  banks,  and  the  lolty  sununiis  of  the 
Apennines  towering  in  the  distance.  The  night-wind 
crept  from  leaf  to  leaf,  and  gently  agitated  the  waters  of 


2S6  MISCELLANEOUS 

• 

the  river  ;  while  from  a  neighbouring  grove  tlie  notes  of 
the  nii^htingale  were  borne  upon  the  breeze.  The  genial 
influence  of  the  air,  and  the  fragrance  of  a  thousand  odor- 
ous flowers,  which  bloomed  aiound  her,  soon  revived 
Leonora.  The  first  objects  which  she  beheld,  on  opening 
her  eyes,  were  those  "  stelli  mortali,"  which  had  been  the 
cause  of  this  confusion.  A  smile  played  upon  her  lip, 
.although  a  deep  blush  overspread  her  cheeks,  as  she  said 
to  Milton,  "  ]  believe.  Sir,  we  have  met  before,  and  I  hope 
you  will  pardon  the  inconsiderate  folly  of  an  enthusiastic 
girl." 

"Talk  not  of  pardon!"  interrupted  the  poet,  "divine 
Leonora  !  talk  of  joy,  of  rapture  !  The  heavenly  form 
which  I  fancied  an  unsubstantial  vision  is  corporeal,  is 
vital,  and  I  hold  it  in  my  arms  !" 

We  believe  the  lady  blushed,  and  gently  disengaged 
herself,  according  to  the  received  dicta  of  decorum  on 
such  occasions.  The  poet,  however,  still  retained  enough 
favour  in  her  eyes,  and  in  those  of  her  mother,  to  be  allowed 
to  accompany  thetn  home,  and  to  obtain  permission  to  call 
upon  them  on  the  following  morning. 

"  And  may  I,"  said  Ailriana,  as  the  poet  was  taking  his 
leave,  "  may  !  beg  to  know,  Signer,  to  whom  we  are  so 
greatly  indebted  ?" 

"  My  name,"  he  answered,  «  is  Milton." 

"Milton!"  exclaimed  both  ladies,  as  with  a  feeling  of 
solemn  awe,  they  retreated  for  a  few  paces,  and  then,  with 
a  deeper  feeiitig  of  entluisiastic  admiration,  advanced,  and 
each  took  hold  of  one  of  his  hands.  A  crimson  blush 
suflused  the  face  of  the  beautiful  Leonora  at  recognising, 
in  the  handsome  sleeper,  the  mighty  bard,  by  whose 
writing  she  had  been  s[)ell-bound  for  many  an  hour  of 
intense  and  delighted  interest.  He  had  not  yet  given  to 
the  world  his  master-work,  and  thus  rendeiied  the  high 
encomiums  of  Selvaggi  and  Sai-illi  no  hyperbole  ;  but  that 
scarcely  less  glorious  emanation  of  his  genius,  Comus,  as 
well  as  UJillegro,  II  Penseroso,  Lycidas,  and  some  of  his 
immortal  sonnets,  had  already  appeared,  and  were  read, 
and  justly  appreciated  both  in  England  and  Italy.  The 
permission  which  he  had  obtained  to  appear  the  next  day 
at  their  residence,  was  now  transformed  into  something 


PROSE    AND    POETRt.  23*? 

between  an  injunction  and  a  petition.  He  then  took  a 
reluctant  leave  for  the  purpose  of  rejoining  the  assembly 
at  the  Cardinal's,  and  apologizing  for  the  absence  of  the 
sirens,  which  was  readily  excused  on  the  score  of  the  ill- 
ness of  the  younger  one. 

The  remainder  of  the  evening  passed  without  the  occur- 
rence of  any  incident,  the  record  of  which  would  be  likely 
to  interest  our  readers.  The  poet,  whose  fine  person  and 
fascinating  manners  had  more  than  confirmed  the  feelings 
of  admiration  which  his  divine  writings  had  created, 
retired,  the  theme  of  universal  eulogy.  He  retired,  but 
not  to  rest ;  the  image  of  Leonora  haunted  his  waking 
thoughts,  and  formed  the  subject  of  his  dreams :  again  he 
fancied  himself  among  the  Apennines  ;  again  the  fairy 
figure  approached  and  dropped  the  scroll ;  again  he 
stretched  forth  his  hand,  but  more  successfully  than  be- 
fore ;  he  reached  hers  ;  when  suddenly  the  scene  changed, 
and  he  found  himself  in  the  saloon  of  the  Barberini  Palace, 
with  the  beautiful  songstress,  pale  and  senseless,  in  his 
arms. 

He  arose  feverish  and  unre freshed  ;  and  while  the 
divine  tones  of  Leonora's  voice  seemed  to  be  still  ringing 
in  his  ears,  he  seized  his  pen,  and  composed  the  following 
elegant  Latin  verses  : — 

"AD  LEONORAM  ROM.E  CANENTEM. 

Altera  Torquatum  cepit  Leonora  poetara, 

Cujus  ab  insano  cessit  amore  furens. 

Ah  miser  !  ille  tuo  qiiaiito  felicior  scvo  / 

Perditus  et  propter  te,  Leonora  foret ! 

Et  le  Pierid  sensisset  voce  cancntcm 

Aurea  maternan  fila  rnovere  lyrtE  ; 

(^iiamvis  Dircaeo  torsisset  limiina  PentJieo 

Saevior,  aut  totus  desipuissst  iners  ; 

Tu  tamen  erranles  caca  verti<,nne  sensiis 

Voce  eadem  poleras  coiiipusuisse  tuii ; 

Et  poteras,  a;gro  3|)irans  sub  corde,  quielem 

Flexamino  cantu  restituisse  sibi."  ^ 

Which  have  been  thus  translated  by  Dr.  Symmons  :— »• 


2Si>  MISCELLANEOUS 

''TO  LEONORA  SINGING  AT  ROME. 

Another  Leonora's  charms  inspired 

The  love  that  Tasso's  phrensied  senses  fired  ; 

More  blest  had  been  his  fate  were  this  his  age, 

And  you  tb'  inspirer  of  his  amorous  rajre 

Oh  !   had  he  heard  the  wonders  of  your  song, 

As  leads  your  voice  its  li(juid  maze  along  ; 

Or,  seen  you  in  your  Motlier's  nght  command 

The  Lyre,  while  rapture  wakes  beneath  your  hand  : 

3y  Penthens'  wildness  though  his  brain  were  tost, 

Or  his  worn  sense  in  sullen  slumber  lost. 

His  soul  had  chcck'd  her  wanderings  at  the  strain  ; 

The  soothing  charm  had  lulTd  his  stormy  brain  ; 

Or,  breathing  with  creative  power  had  driven 

Death  frou)  his  heart,  and  oj)en'd  it  to  Heaven." 

These  lines  were  despatched  by  the  poet  early  in  the 
morning  to  Leonora,  and  he  himselt'  was  not  long  in  lol- 
lowing.     His  second  interview  with  the  fair    siren   was 
deeply  interesting  to  both.     The  charms  and  talents  of 
Leonora  made  an   impression  on  the  heart  of  the  bard, 
which  he  found  himself  unable  to  control ;  and  in  the  feel- 
ings with  which  the  former  now  regarded  Milton,  there  was 
less  of  admiration  for  the  poet,  than  of  affection  for  the 
handsome  and  accomplished  Englishman  who  sat  beside 
her.     Our  readers,  therefore,  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear 
that  this  visit  lasted  long,  and  was  qui(;kly  succeeded  by 
another    and   another.       The    ladies    shortly  afterward 
leaving  Rome  for  Mantua,  Milton  escorted  them  to  the 
latter  place,  and  fixed  his  temporary  ab^de   there,  where 
his  attenti  ns  to  Leonora  became  still  more  marked.     The 
keen  apprehension  of  Adriana  soon  detected  the  state  of 
their  hearts,  but  the  feelings  which  the  discovery  awakened 
in  her  own,  were  by  no  means  of  an  unmingled  character. 
The  accomplishments,  both  mmlal  and  personal,  of  her 
daughter's  suiter  had  gained  the  admiration  and  esteem  of 
the  mother ;  but  his  transalpine  birth,  and  heretical  creed, 
presented  obstacles  to  the  union,  which,  although  to  her 
they  did  not  appear  insuperable,  would,  she  feared,  be 
deemed  so  by  other  ujembers  of  the  family,  and  especially 
by  her  son,  who  was  an  officer  in  the  service  of  the  repub- 
lic of  Venice,  a  bigoted  adherent  to  the  church  of  Rome  :■ 


FROJSE    AND    POETRY.  23B 

Of  tierce  and  ungovernable  passions ;  and  accustomed  to 
rule  with  despotic  auihoiity  in  all  the  concerns  of  the 
family.  When,  theieibre,  Milton  formally  announced  him- 
self to  Adriana,  as  a  suiter  for  her  danj^htei's  hand,  she 
did  not  affect  to  disguise  her  own  ajiprobation  of  the  pro- 
posal, but  informed  him  that  it  would  be  necessary  that 
Leonora's  relations,  and  es|)ef'ially  her  brother,  should  be 
consulted.  Milton,  who  was  not  ignorant  of  the  temper 
and  character  of  the  soldier,  felt  much  chagrined  at  this 
intelligence,  but  proposed  to  take  a  journey  to  Venice 
immediately,  for  the  purpose  of  advocating  his  suit  in  per- 
son. The  entreatif's  of  Adriana,  who  anticipated  danger- 
ous, if  not  fatal  cnnsequenecs,  fiom  so  abrupt  a  proceeding, 
induced  him  to  relinquish  his  design.  She  undertook  to 
break  the  matter  to  her  S'  n  b}-  degrees  ;  but,  as  she  had  no 
doubt  that  the  first  intelligence  would  bring  him,  foaming 
with  fury,  to  Mantua,  she  advised  Milton  to  withdraw  him- 
self for  a  short  time  from  that  city  This  advice  the  poet 
determined  to  adopt ;  especially  as  he  had  lately  received 
several  pressing  invitations  from  the  Marquis  Villa  to  visit 
him  at  Naples.  His  parting  intervit  w  with  Let-nora  was 
of  the  most  tender  description  ;  vows  of  eternal  fidelity 
were  made  on  both  sides;  and  sighs,  and  tears,  and  pro- 
testations, were  lavished  with  even  more  than  amatory 
prodigality. 

At  Naples  the  Poet  was  received  with  open  arms  by 
Manso.  This  fine  old  man,  who  had  been  the  friend  and 
patron  of  Marino  and  of  Tasso,  bestowed  on  the  still 
more  illustrious  Bard  who  now  visited  him,  the  most  flat- 
tering m.uks  of  distinction.  He  acted  as  his  cicerone 
during  his  stay  in  Nuph  s  ;  conducting  him  through  the 
Viceroy's  Palace,  and  all  the  other  public  i'uildings  which 
usually  attract  the  notice  of  strangers ;  and  also  intro- 
duced him  to  the  circle  of  his  fiiends  c.-niprising  the 
most  illustrionn  and  distinguished  men  in  N:tples.  The 
manners  and  conversation  ol"  Milton  were  such  as  to 
make  him  a  welcome  guest  wherever  he  went;  and  to 
Manso  in  particular  the  Poet's  society  became  eveiy  day 
more  fascinating.  That  he  was  a  heretic  appeared  to  him 
to  be  his  only  fault,  and  this  he  considered  as  more  a  mis- 
fortune thaTi  a  crime.  Manso's  Epigram  on  this  subject 
js  well  known  : — 


240  MISCELLANEOUS 

"  Ut  mens,  forma,  decor,  facics,  rnos,  si  pietas  sic, 
Non  Anglus  verum  liercle  Angelus  ipse  fores." 

And  though  the  pun  in  this  distich  seems  to  defy  transla- 
tion, yet  as  Dr.  Symnions  has  attempted  it,  we  give  his 
version  for  want  of  abetter: — 

"  With  mind,  form,  manners,  face,  did  faith  agree, 
No  Angle  but  an  Angel  would'st  thou  be." 

All  the  attractions  of  the  society  and  scenery  of  Naples 
did  not,  howf'ver,  make  Milton  forgetful  of  Leonora.  He 
wrote  to  her  often,  and  fervently;  and  it  was  from  this 
place  that  he  addressed  to  her  those  beautiful  Italian  Son- 
nets, which  we  find  among  his  Poems.  To  these  be 
received  the  most  tender  replies  ;  accompanied,  however, 
with  the  unwelcome  intelligence  that  her  brother  had  de- 
clared himself  hostile  to  their  union,  and  had  uttered 
threats  of  personal  violence  to  Milton  if  he  persisted  in 
his  suit.  The  Poet,  in  answer,  renewed  his  protestations 
of  unaltered  love,  and  declared  his  determination  never 
to  resign  her  but  with  his  life.  He  told  her  that  her  bro- 
ther's threats  could  not  daunt  him;  and  that  his  heart, 
although  easily  subdued  by  love,  was  bold  enough  to 
encounter  any  danger ;  which  sentiments  we  find  beauti^ 
fully  expressed  in  the  following  Sonnet ; — 

"  Giovane  piano  e  simplicette  amanle, 

Poi  che  fnggir  mt'  stesso  in  dubbio  sono 
Madonna  a  voi  del  mio  cuor  I'humil  dono 

Faro  divoto  ;  io  certo  a  prove  tante 

L'hebbi  fedile,   infrp[>ido,  costante, 

De  pensieri  legf^iidro,  accorto  e  buono ; 
Quando  rugsre  d  gran  mondo,  e  scocca  il  tuono, 

S'arma  di  se  e  d'intero  diamante. 
Tanto  del  forse,  e  d'invidia  sicuro, 

Di  tiniori,  e  speranze,  al  popol  use, 

Quanto  d'ingegno,  e  d'altor  valo  vago, 

E  di  cetra  aonora  e  delle  muse. 
Sol  troverete  in  tal  parte  men  dure, 

Ove  Amor  mise  I'insanabil  ago." 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  241 

-'  Lady  !  to  you,  a  youth  unknown  to  art, 

Who  fondly  from  himself  in  thought  would  fly, 
Devotes  the  faith,  truth,  spirit,  constancy. 

And  firm,  yet  feeling  temper  of  his  heart ; 

Proved  strong  by  trials  for  life'o  arduous  part. 

When  shakes  the  world,  and  thunders  roll  on  high. 
All  adamant,  it  dares  the  storm  defy. 

Erect,  unconscious  of  the  guilty  start ; 

Not  more  above  fear,  envy,  low  desire, 
And  all  the  tyrants  of  the  vulgar  breast, 

Than  prone  to  hail  the  heaven-resounding  Lyre, 
High  worth,  and  genius  of  the  Muse  possest : 

Unshaken,  and  entire,  and  only  fouiid 

Not  proof  against  the  shaft,  when  Love  directs  the  wound." 

jVlilton  continued  to  reside  at  Naples  for  about  a  month, 
during  which  time  no  event  occurred  worth  recording  ; 
except  that  one  night  as  he  was  returning  to  his  own 
lodgings  from  the  Palace  of  the  Marcpiis,  he  received  a 
wound  in  the  back  from  a  stiletlo.  He  hastily  drew  his 
sword,  and  faced  his  adveisary,  whom  he  found  to  be  a 
tall  thin  figure  in  a  mask.  The  contest  was  short,  and 
would  have  proved  fatal  to  Milton,  for  the  assassin  was  his 
superior,  both  in  strength  and  skill,  had  not  a  party  of  the 
Police  Come  up  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  being  over- 
powered. The  villain  made  one  desperate,  but  unsuc- 
cessful, aim  at  Milt<ni^s  breast,  and  then  fled  with  incredi- 
ble speed.  His  pursuers  were  unable  to  overtake  him, 
but  his  mask  having  drop{)ed  off  during  the  contest,  it 
was  hoped  that  he  might  yet  be  identified  and  secured. 
A  strict  search  was  set  on  foot  the  following  day,  but  no 
trace  of  him  could  be  discovered.  Milton's  wound  was 
slight,  and  soon  healed  ;  and  the  only  consequence  of 
thi«;  encounter  was  a  determination  on  his  part,  whenever 
he  ventured  into  the  streets  of  Naples  at  so  late  an  hour, 
to  go  less  ostentatiously  ornamented  ;  lor  he  had  worn, 
suspended  round  his  neck,  by  a  gold  chain,  a  portrait  of 
Manso  set  in  diamonds,  which  had  been  presented  to  him 
by  that  nobleman,  and  which,  he  had  no  doubt,  had 
tempted  the  cupidity  ol"  the  robber. 

Our  Poet  had  passed  a  whole  fortnight  without  receiv- 
ing any  letters  fiom  Leonora,  although  he  had,  during 
that  period,    written  repeatedly  and   anxiously  to   her  ; 

H  h 


242  MISCELLANEOUS 

when,  dreading  the  worst  from  her  brother's  violence,  he 
determined  to  proceed  immediately  to  Mantua.  He  took 
a  sorrowful  leave  of  his  friends  in  Naples,  especially  of 
Manso,  with  whom  he  left  as  a  partinj?  gift  those  fine 
Latin  verses,  in  which  he  has  immortalized  his  noble 
friend. 

On  his  arrival  at  Mantua,  he  hastened  to  the  residence 
of  Adriaiia.  He  inquired  if  Leonora  was  within,  and 
heard  with  rapture  that  she  was  in  the  little  apartment, 
which  was  called  !ier  Music-room.  He  resisted  the  anx- 
ious importunities  of  the  domestic,  who  admitted  him,  to 
suffer  him  to  announce  him,  determining  to  enjoy  the  sur- 
prise wiiich  hU  arrival  would  occasion.  He  softly  as- 
cended the  staircase,  and  arrived  at  the  door  of  her  apart- 
ment. As  he  a|)proached,  he  heard  sighs  and  v/eeping. 
The  door  was  half  open,  and  as  he  leaned  gently  for- 
ward, he  was  surprised  at  seeing  a  tall  thin  male  figure 
seated  by  the  side  of  Leonora.  His  surprise  was  changed 
into  horror,  when,  on  looking  in  his  face,  he  recognised 
the  features  of  the  assassin  who  had  assaulted  him  in  the 
street  of  Naples.  He  grasped  his  sword,  and  was  about 
to  spring  upon  him,  fearing  that  he  would  commit  some 
violence  upon  Leonora,  when  he  saw  the  latter  take  the 
assassin's  hand,  and  kiss  it  fervently.  Horror  rooted  his 
feet  to  the  ground  :  he  drew  his  mantle  closely  over  his 
face,  so  as  to  cover  every  part  of  it  except  his  eyes, 
while  he  listened  in  breathless  anxiety  to  the  following 
dialogue  : — 

"  Why,"  said  Leonora,  "  why  will  you  talk  thus  cruelly  1 
If  you  love  me  no  longer,  at  least  |.it\  uie  !" 

*'  Pify  you  !  pity  one  so  utterly  lost !  Even  Heaven 
itself^  all-merciful  as  it  is,  withholds  its  pity  from  the 
damned." 

"  Alas  !"  she  sobbed,  "  I  have  committed  no  ciime." 

"  No  crime  !-'  he  exclaimed  ;  "  call  jou  it  no  crime  to 
love  a  wretch  like  this  ?  an  Englishman  !  a  heretic  !  one 
who  has  even  visited  the  ir.famoun  Galileo  in  his  dungeon.'' 

"  And  yet,  Antonio,"  she  said,  "  he  is  brave,  and  wise, 
and  kind,  and  generous  ;  can  it  be  a  crime  to  love  such 
a  one,  dear  Brother  .'" 

Milton  started !  Antonio  turned  round ;  the  poet, 
placed  in  a  dark  recess,  with  his  face  and  form  muffled  iri 


PROSE    ANU    POtTKV.  243 

Ilis  cloak,  U'ould  have  escaped  liis  observation,  but  bis  eyes 
llashing  witli  the  fiies  of  fury  and  horioi-,  anestcd  the 
attention  of  the  bravo. 

"'Tis  he!  'tis  he,"  cxcUiimf  d  the  latter:  "I  know 
that  fiend-like  glare  ;  hell  aiirl  heresy  arc  in  it.  Unhand 
me,  sister,  or,  by  heaven,  the  stiletto,  when  it  enters  his 
breast  shall  be  reeking  warm  from  your  own." 

He  sprang  like  an  emanoi[)ated  tiger  from  the  grasp  of 
his  sister,  and  rushed  towards  Milton,  Oh  !  s[)are  him  ! 
save  him  !"  exclaimed  Leonora.  She  rushed  between 
them  as  the  stiletto  was  raised  in  the  act  to  strike,  and  her 
bosom  formed  at  once  a  shield  for  that  of  Milton  and  a 
sheath  for  the  fatal  weapon. 

She  sunk  upon  the  ground,  bathed  in  blood;  and  even 
the  monster  who  was  the  author  of  this  tragedy  was  moved, 
"  Support  her,"  he  said  to  Milton,  "  help  me  to  hold 
her  up." 

"  It  is  in  vain  !  all  is  in  vain  !"  shrieked  the  poet,  as  he 
clasped  her  hand,  and  gazed  (earnestly  in  her  lace.  She 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  his  until  they  closed.  One  gentle 
pressure  of  his  hand  ;  one  slight  quivering  of  the  lips  ; 
and  then  the  temple  of  the  immortal  spirit  was  an  unin- 
habited ruin. 

Antonio  fled  howling  from  the  chamber  of  death  :  and 
Milton  sunk  upon  the  bosom  of  the  murdered  beauty. 
We  have  but  httle  to  add.  The  feelings  of  the  unhappy 
Adriana  may  be  better  conceived  than  expressed.  She 
survived  her  daughter,  but  twelve  months,  and  ended  her 
days  in  a  convent.  Milton,  when  the  first  paroxysm  of 
grief  had  subsided,  resolved  to  travel  into  Italy  and  Greece, 
in  order  to  divert  his  melanclioly.  The  troubles,  how- 
ever, which  just  then  broke  out  in  England,  made  him 
abandon  this  design  and  retuin  to  his  native  country ; 
"  For  I  esteemed  it,"  said  he,  "  dishonourable  for  me  to 
be  lingering  abroad,  even  for  the  improvement  of  my 
mind,  when  my  fellow-citizens  were  contending  lor  their 
liberty  at  home." 

The  death  of  Leonora  made  a  deep  impression  on  the 
minds  of  all  classes  ;  and  the  superstitious  used  to  dwell 
with  awe  upon  the  extraordinary  fulfilment  of  the  pro- 
phecy contained  in  the  verses  which  she  had  inscribed 
upon   the  scroll.      Tho<;e  "  stelli  mortoli"    had   literally 


244  MISCELLANEOUS    PROSE,    ETC. 

proved  the  cause  of  all  her  ills,  and  ultimately  of  her 
death  ;  and  the  eyes  of  Milton  were  for  a  long  time  com- 
pared to  the  heel  of  Achilles  ;  as  the  only  part  neglected, 
and  the  part  which  was  destined  to  prove  fatal. 

HoMMAGE  Aux  Dames,"  1825. 


TOTTERIDGi:    PRIORY. 


A  REVERIE  IN  HERTFORDSHIRE. 


Were  you  evei',  my  dear  reader,  at  the  village  of  ToS- 
teridge  ?  If  not,  put  your  horse  to  your  gig  this  moment ; 
drive  past  the  pleasant  villages  of  Holloway,  Finchley, 
2cnd  Whetstone ;  and,  turning  sharp  round  to  the  left, 
you  will  find  a  green  lane,  so  quiet,  so  rural,  so  solitary, 
and  such  a  declivity,  that  you  will  stand  as  fair  a  chance 
as  any  man  in  the  world  of  breaking  your  neck,  or  getting 
your  throat  cut,  before  you  get  to  the  end  of  it.  Sup- 
posing neither  of  those  interesting  incidents  were  to  occur, 
you  will  find  at  the  end  a  long  straggling  village,  scarcely 
containing  a  dozen  houses,  but  extending  perhaps  over  a 
couple  of  miles  of  ground.  There  are  several  houses 
here  of  rare  antiquity  ;  but  the  spirit  of  modern  innova- 
tion and  improvement  has  found  its  way  among  them, 
and  a  parcel  of  trim  dapper  brick  and  stone  fronts,  in  the 
modern  style  of  building,  have  made  their  appearance, 
and  stare  the  ancient  denizens  of  the  place  out  of  counte- 
nance. The  most  interesting  of  the  old  houses  is  the 
Priory;  said  by  the  inhabitants  to  be  of  an  age  which  I 
dare  not  mention  to  my  incredulous  readers.  However, 
it  is  certainly  of  no  modern  date,  but  a  Gothic  ecclesias- 
tical structure,  built  in  the  style  which  was  most  prevalent 
in  this  Island  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  The  cowled 
monks,  the  bare-foot  friars,  the  chaunted  mass,  the 
solemn  vespers,  alas !  alas !  all  these  have  disappeared  ; 
and,  instead  of  them,  melancholy  change  !  you  meet  with 
nothing  but  happy  countenances,  pleasant  conversation, 
cheerfulness,  and  hospitality. 

But,  this  is  rnmblinii'  fiom  the  main  object  of  my  paper. 


24G  MISCELLANEOUS 

My  indulgeut  readers,  however,  know  my  way,  and  will 
pardon  it.  I  had  not  been  long  under  this  roof,  before  I 
learned  that  the  house  had  formerly  been  occupied  by  the 
celebrated  Lord  Chesierfitld,  the  piiiice  of  diplomatists 
and  dancing-mastf.rs.  This  information  I  acquired  from 
my  worthy  host,  with  whom  I  was  sitting,  tcte-n4ete,  after 
dinner.  Strangely  enouiji,  its  effect,  aided,  1  suppose,  by 
the  wine  which  I  had  drunk,  was  to  set  my  body  at  rest, 
and  my  mind  at  work.  My  corporeal  eyelids  closed  over 
the  organs  of  vision  suddenly,  as  if  they  had  a  weight  of 
lead  upon  them,  but  instantly  "  my  mind's  eyes''  opened, 
and  I  found  myself  still  occupying  the  same  chair,  at  the 
same  table,  in  the  same  room  ;  but  my  host  was  gone  ; 
and  instead  of  him,  I  found  standing  near  me  an  aristo- 
cratical-looking  gentleman,  ot  fifty  years  of  age,  perhaps, 
or,  '*  by'r  lad;,,  some  threescore."  1  instantly  knew  this 
person  to  be  no  other  than  my  Lord  Chesterfield.  He 
was  dressed  most  fastidiousl},  in  the  fashion  of  the  period 
to  which  he  belonged.  He  wore  a  long  flowing  peruque, 
most  elaborately  powdered ;  a  blue  coat,  with  a  velvet 
collar,  and  enormous  buttons  ;  a  waistcoat  which,  in  our 
degenerate  age,  would  be  assigned  only  to  persons  of  the 
dimensions  of  Daniel  Lambert ;  and  a  frilled  shirt,  with 
lace  ruflies  ;  round  his  left  leg  was  tied  the  riband  of  the 
Garter,  while  he  held  a  cocked  hat  in  his  right  hand,  and 
a  gold-headed  cane  under  his  left  arm. 

This  courteous,  but  antiquated  figure  saluted  me  civilly, 
but  coldly ;  and  1  returned  his  attention  in  the  same  man- 
ner. He,  however,  continued  bowing  so  long, — bowing, 
as  our  friend  Richard  Martin,  M.P.  would  say,  like  a 
Master  in  Chancery, — that  I  plainly  perceived  his  inten- 
tion was  to  bow  me  out. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  Lord,"  said  I ;  "  but  this  is  my  domi-= 
oil  for  to-night." 

"  Exceedingl)  happy  to  see  you,  Sir,"  he  replied  ;  "  but 
you  must  be  aware  that  this  mansion  is  not  your  property." 

"  Nor  yours,  either,  my  Lord,  1  apprehend,  now,  what- 
ever it  may  have  been  a  century  ago.  I  take  the  liberty 
of  presuming  that  it  at  present  appertains  to  my  friend, 
Mr.  Dashviile." 

"  And  pray,  Sir,  who  is  Mr.  Dashviile  ?"  said  the  spirit; 
peevishlv. 


PROSE    AND    POETRr,  Zil 

"  Will  you  taste  this  wine  ?''  said  I,  handing  him  a  glass, 
■^^  and  then  you  may  give  something  of  a  guess  at  him." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  returned  his  Lordship.  "  It 
is  a  hundred  y<-ars  since  1  tiisted  wine,  and  therefore  it 
is  no  wonder  that  I  feel  rather  thirsty. — Excellent !  ex- 
cellent !"  he  adde<J,  after  emptying  his  glass.  "  I  have 
no  doubt  that  Mr.  Dashville  is  a  most  worthy  gentleman; 
and,  if  you  pU-ase,  we'll  drink  his  health." 

We  now  got  very  sociable,  and  I  could  not  help  in- 
forming his  Lordship  of  my  late  interview  with  Ben 
Jonson  ;  but  it  had  not  the  cffifrct  which  I  anticipated. 

"  Ben  Jonson,"  he  said,  "  was  a  clever  man,  but  he 
was  a  bear  ;  and  besides  that,  he  frequented  taverns,  and 
kept  low  company." 

"  My  Loni  !"  exclaimed  I,  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  "  the 
company  which  he  kept  was  composed  of  Shakspeare, 
Spenser,  Fletcher,  Donne, " 

"  No  matter  for  their  names,"  interrupted  he  ;  "  they 
were  vulgar  fellows,  not  fit  for  a  man  of  fashion  to  think 
or  talk  of.     We  kept  aloof  from  all  such." 

"  Really,  my  Lord,"  said  I,  "  I  am  surprised  that  a 
fine  gentleman  like  yourself,  should  have  ever  conde- 
scended to  put  your  foot  into  so  unfashionable  a  place  as 
the  grave.-" 

"  True,  true  ;  'tis  an  unfortunate  necessity.  There  is 
good  company  there,  though,  could  one  but  keep  it  select. 
But,  pardon  me,  Sir,  you  are  most  hideously  clothed." 

Thus  saying,  he  turned  me  round,  adjusted  my  hair  so 
as  to  look  as  mncl'  like  a  jn  ruqis-  as  possii.ie  ;  fi<n;g  some 
of  his  own  powder  upon  it;  ami  then  proceeded  lo  pull 
my  linen  and  waistcoat  aboutj  even  to  the  operation  of 
tearing. 

"  Hold  !  hold  !  my  dear  Lord  !"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 
of  supplication,  "  1  shall  never  be  able  to  show  my  face 
in  Hjde  Park,  or  Bup.d-street,  if  you  go  on  in  this  man- 
ner. We  dress  in  a  very  (Jifffrcnt  style  now,  from  what 
you  and  your  contemporaries  did." 

A  smile  of  serene  contempt  passed  over  the  features  of 
the  defunct  Peer,  as  I  ruade  this  observuiiui',  and  1  could 
plamly  perceive  that  all  his  dead  blood  was  roused.  lie, 
nevertheless,  miMngi^d  to  m;i,-<t'  i  his  emotion  as  well  as  a 
dead  man  could  be  expected  to  do  it,  and  proceeded. 


:i4b  MISCELLANEOUS 

«'  I  dare  say  that  is  very  true,"  said  he  ;  "  for  1  have 
seen  most  awful  changes  in  the  fashions,  as  exemplified  by 
the  various  occupants  of  this  house,  who  have  usually 
been  persons  of  bon-ton.  In  the  first  family  which  suc- 
ceeded me,  the  pink  ol  fashion  was  the  heir.  He  was  of 
the  real  Mr.  Jessainy  breed.  He  had  passed  a  twelve- 
month in  Paris,  where  he  acquired  a  becoming  contempt 
for  his  own  countiy  and  its  manners ;  and  learned  just 
nothing  at  all  of  the  country  which  he  visited,  but  a  few 
phrases  of  the  language,  with  which  he  so  managed  to 
lard  his  conversation,  as  to  render  it  unintelligible  to  a 
native  of  either  nation.  He  was  always  seized  with  a 
violent  spasmodic  aft'ection  if  he  passed  a  filthy  fellow  of 
a  ploughman  or  a  haymaker ;  and  once  kept  his  bed  for 
five  weeks  with  a  violent  cold,  brought  on  by  the  circum- 
stance of  a  person  in  a  wet  great  coat  having  sat  down  in 
the  same  room  with  him.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  very 
tender  and  sympathetic  habits  ;  although  he  once  dis- 
charged his  whole  household,  because  he  found  a  bottle, 
containing  a  favourite  cosmetic,  broken,  and  could  not 
discover  the  individual  author  of  the  accident.  He  at 
length  died  of  immoderate  grief  for  the  loss  of  a  favourite 
monkey,  to  whom  he  bore  a  great  resemblance,  and  with 
whom  he  was  on  terms  of  extraordinary  intiuiacy.  The 
two  animals  were  so  much  alike,  that,  were  it  not  that  the 
one  wore  a  tail,  and  the  other  a  sword,  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  discover  the  difierence. 

"  By  the  time  that  the  iiext  tenant  took  possession,  the 
fashion  had  materially  altered.  L<igic  and  disputation 
were  the  order  of  the  day,  and  all  our  tine  gentlemen 
were  infidels.  The  Bible  was  considered  as  the  most 
factitious  book  in  the  world,  and  the  most  immoderate 
laughter  that  I  ever  heard,  was  that  roared  out  over  the 
story  of  Balaam  and  his  ass.  The  occupant  of  the 
Priory,  although  he  did  not  believe  in  the  existence  of  his 
own  soul,  yet,  like  H  ihbes,  he  paid  the  compliment  to 
those  of  others,  by  b<-lievinii  that  they  revisited  the  earth 
after  death,  and  he  was  consequently  most  dismally  afraid 
of  aj)paritions.  He  died  one  night  of  excessive  terror, 
caused  by  a  friend  who  showed  his  kindness  and  his  wit, 
by  arraying  himself  in  a  white  sheet,  plastering  his  face, 
and  proceeding,  with  a  lighted  taper  in  his  hand,  into  his 
bedchamber. 


'  I'KOSE    AND    rOETRY.  249 

*"'  The  house  was  now  shut  up  for  some  time,  and  re- 
ported to  be  haunted  ;  nay,  the  ghost  of  our  free-thinking 
friend  is  said  still  to  walk  in  its  most  ancient  chambers. 
At  length  it  was  bought  cheap  by  a  dashing  young  fellow, 
who  drove  his  own  four-in-hand,  at  a  time  when  that  ac- 
complistiment  was  considered  the  very  acme  of  aristocrati- 
cal  education.  The  Coronet  was  not  worthily  surmount- 
ed, except  by  a  coachman's  cap;  the  gold  stick,  the  Field- 
maishai's  baton,  and  the  steward  of  the  royal  household's 
wand  of  office,  were  considered  as  worthless  baubles,  in 
comparison  with  a  Jehu's  whip ;  and  the  seat  nearest  the 
throne  was  a  station  neither  so  enviable,  nor  so  honoura- 
ble, as  the  top  of  a  coach-box.  The  gentleman,  however, 
who  tenanted  the  Priory,  soon  finished  his  career  ;  for,  on 
turning  one  evening  short  round  with  his  four  grays  down 
Totteridge-lane,  he  was  thrown  from  <  his  high  estate ;' 
and  picked  up  Ufeless,  and  '  weltering  in  his  blood,'  like 
Darius  of  old." 

"A  most  melancholy  termination,  my  Lord,"  said  I, 
"  of  such  an  ambitious  and  well-spent  life.  But  pray  who 
succeeded  the  charioteer  1  I  suppose  some  character  of  a 
similar  stamp  ?" 

"No,  no,"  replied  the  loquacious  ghost;  "the  cha- 
rioteer had  nearly  outlived  the  tashion  of  which  he  was  the 
breathing  mirror,  and  when  the  young  Honourable  Tom 
Hardfist  took  possession  of  these  premises,  boxing  was  the 
order  of  the  day.  No  person  without  a  swelled  lip,  and 
a  pair  of  black  eyes,  could  presume  to  take  his  seat  in 
the  House  of  Peers ;  nay,  the  blue  ribbon  itself  was 
considered  an  inferior  distinction  to  the  black  eye. 
-  Even  the  ladies  shared  in  the  general  mania ;  and  as  we 
all  know  that  in  that  sex  there  is  not  so  beautiful  a  feature 
as  black  eyes,  so  that  those  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
born  with  blue  or  hazel,  had  now  a  short  and  easy  means 
of  remedying  the  defect,  and  becoming  at  once  handsome, 
and  in  the  fashion.  Totteridge  Piiory  was  now  converted 
into  a  boxing  arena.  All  the  most  eminent  pugilists  of 
the  day  exhibited  their  science  there  to  the  great  delight 
of  the  proprietor  ;  until  one  day,  Mr.  Hardfist  received 
such  a  severe  blow  upon  his  chest,  that  he  was  obliged  to 
take  to  his  bed,  and,  after  lingering  two  or  three  weeks, 
died  in  great  agonv." 

li 


250  MISCELLANEOUS  PROSE,  ETC. 

"A  most  extraordinarily  varied  succession  of  tenants, 
my  lionl,"  said  1  ;  "  and  although  I  am  no  great  admirer 
ol'  your  system  of  fashion  and  manners,  still  I  cannot 
liesitate  in  jrivin^  it  the  [)reference  over  all  that  you  have 
enumerated  as  following  alter  it.  Hut  pray,  who  tilled  the 
vacant  seat  of  Mr.  Hardfist?" 

"  Nay,  Jiay,"  said  the  noble  ghost,  "  we  shall  be  getting 
too  near  the  present  times,  my  friend  ;  and  I  do  not  like 
to  talk  scandal  even  in  m)  grave ;  so,  good  evening  to 
you." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  I,  starting  up,  and  knocking  down 
two  or  thn  e  glasses,  "  I  cannot  part  with  you  so  easily." 
— This  etfort  broke  my  reverie  ;  and,  on  opening  my  eyes, 
I  perceived  no  one  near  me,  but  my  host." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  said  he :  "I  hope  you  have 
enjoyed  your  nap  ?" 

"  My  nap !"  I  exclaimed,  "  I  do  not  understand  you  ; 
where 's  Lord  Chestei  field  ?" 

"  Lord  Chesterfield  !"  was  the  ejaculation  in  reply;  "  I 
have  seen  no  such  person  " 

By  degrees  I  recovered  my  recollection ;  and,  as  an 
atonement  for  breaking  the  glasses,  I  was  obliged  to  nar- 
rate my  dream  at  the  tea-table.  Such  as  it  is,  1  told  it; 
and  such  as  it  is,  I  give  it  for  the  perusal  of  my  fashiona- 
ble readers. 

"News  op  Liter.\ture,"  1826. 


».    -    V.       »..>.'.,.    ...<. 


THt 


SHARSPKAREAi^    J^LVSIUM. 


A  FEW  evenings  ago,  after  I  had  spent  several  hours  in 
the  perusal  of  Shakspeare,  and  while  my  mind  was  occu- 
pied in  reflecting  upon  that  amazing  genius  which  had 
"  exhausted  worlds,  and  then  imagined  new,"  one  of  those 
reveries  to  which  I  have  lately  been  subject,  stole  over  my 
senses.  I  fancied  myself  seated  in  a  crazy  boat,  upon  a 
sluggish  stream,  over  which  a  sturdy  fellow  of  a  waterman 
was  rowing  me.  "  Whither  are  you  carrying  me,  my 
friend  ?"  said  I. 

"  To  the  other  world  !"  he  replied,  in  a  gruff  voice, 
which  caused  a  thrill  throughout  my  whole  frame. 

"  To  the  other  world  !"  exclaimed  I ;  "pray  on  what 
part  of  it  do  you  intend  to  land  me  1" 

"  I  have  orders,"  said  he,  "  to  take  you  to  the  Shaks- 
pearean  Elysium." 

This  was  a  place  of  which  I  had  never  heard  before ; 
and  I  therefore  begged  him  to  explain  himself  more  fully. 

"  Why,  Master,"  said  he,  "  you  must  know  that  this 
Shakspeare  created  a  world  of  his  own ;  and  filled  it, 
moreover,  with  such  a  vast  variety  of  characters,  that, 
when  their  appointed  times  came,  Pluto  declined  admitting 
them  into  his  dominions  ;  saying,  that  he  had  no  room  for 
them-,  unless  he  turned  out  his  own  subjects  :  this  place 
was,  therefore,  created  purposely  for  their  reception,  in 
which,  as  in  the  other,  there  is  both  an  Elysium  and  a 
Tartarus.  All  the  characters  invented  by  the  Poet  arc 
sent  to  Elysium  ;  excepting  the  very  few  that  he  has  ill 
drawn,  which,  together  with  his  bad  puns,  his  bombast, 
and  his  indelicacies,  arc  despatched   to  Tartarus;  and 


252  MISCELLANEOUS 

also,  excepting  his  historical  personages,  who,  being 
natives  of  the  real  substantial  world  above,  are,  of  course, 
under  the  dominion  of  Pluto." 

"  Indeed,''  s;ud  I,  "  this  is  a  rare  place  to  visit ;  hut 
although  you,  saving  your  presence,  are  marvtllouHly  ill- 
favoured,  >()u  tio  not  exacils  .mswer  the  descriptions  which 
I  have  read  of  that  grim  lerryman,  Charon." 

"  No," said  he,  sulkily;  "  1  an)  not  exactly  he,  although 
my  occupation  is  similar:  I  am  the  Boatswain  mentioned 
in  the  "  Tempest,^^  and  fill  this  office  at  the  instiiration  of 
an  old  brute  of  a  Neapolitan  lord,  named  Gonzalo ;  who 
prophesied  that  I  should  be  hanged  in  the  other  world, 
and  has  done  all  he  could  to  make  me  wish  myself  so  in 
this." 

By  the  time  that  my  Ferryman  had  told  me  thus  much, 
our  boat  had  reached  the  shore.  The  first  thing  that  I 
did  upon  landing  was  to  look  out  for  that  "gentleman 
with  three  heads,"  as  Mrs.  Alalaprop  calls  him,  Cerberus. 
Instead  of  him,  however,  I  found  a  good-looking  mastiff 
with  only  one  head  upon  his  shoulders,  who  turned  out 
to  be  no  other  than  our  friend  Crab,  in  the  "  Two  Geii- 
tlemen  of  Verona."  I  soon  afterward  learned  that  Bot- 
tom, the  Weaver,  whose  fondness  for  volunteering  his 
services  on  all  occasions,  my  readers  must  be  aware  of^ 
was  very  anxious  to  fill  this  situation ;  as  he  said  that  he 
could  boast  of  having,  at  least,  two  heads ;  namely,  the 
one  with  which  he  was  born,  and  the  ass's  head  which 
Master  Puck  had  fixed  upon  him.  The  q-ialifications  of 
Crab  were,  however,  considered  superior,  and  Bottom  was 
dismissed  to  Elysium. 

Seated  upon  the  throne  of  these  infernal  regions,  in- 
stead of  Pluto  and  Proserpine,  I  found  Tragedy  and 
Comedy.  The  former  saluted  me  with  a  very  conde- 
scending bend  of  the  head  ;  and  the  latter,  with  a  be- 
witching smile,  pointed  out  to  me  the  gate  of  Elysium. 
I  entered,  and  after  recovering  from  the  rapture  which 
the  delicious  atmosphere,  and  the  enchanting  scenery 
excited,  I  looked  around  in  search  of  some  human  object 
of  curiosity.  I  found  the  place  very  thickly  populated, 
and  the  inhabitants  split  into  various  small  groups  and 
parties.  The  first  of  these  which  I  encountered,  con- 
sisted of  six  or  seven  persons  who  were  seated  round  a 


PROSE  AND  POETUV.  253 

table  in  an  arbour,  and  were  eating  and  drinking,  and 
making  very  merry.  I  soon  found  out  that  they  were  of 
that  class  of  characters,  now  no  longer  in  existence,  so 
admirably  portrayed  by  the  iireat  Poet,  called  Clowns,  or 
Fools.  Touchstone,  "one  that  had  been  a  Courtier," 
was  in  thecliuir;  and  around  him  were  ranged  Laun- 
celol  Gobbo ;  the  bitter  and  sarcastic,  yet,  withal,  kind- 
hearted  Fool  in  '■'■King  Lear;''''  the  merry  singing  Clown 
in  "  Twelfth  ^ight.''^  wb  »  ma<)c  snrb  irreverent  sport  of 
the  cross  garieis  i.'t  Alaholio  ;  Pompey  Bunu  in  one  par- 
ticular, the  greatest  of  them  all;  ihe  i^hipherti's  Son,  and 
Costard;  besides  several  others  ot  inferior  eminence.  I 
also  found  this  company  pestered  by  a  troublesome  fel- 
low, whose  object  it  evidently  was  to  get  admitted  among" 
them,  but  who  took  much  pains  to  persuade  them  that  he 
despised  them  immensely,  and  considered  himself  infi- 
nitely their  superior.  Tliis  :  eison,  whom  they  at  length 
permitted  to  join  them,  I  discovered  to  be  Apemantus. 
The  Grave  digger  in  "  Hamlet""  I  learned  had  long  been 
desirous  of  makmg  one  among  ih(  m  ;  and  at  last,  having 
made  them  a  present  of  a  goblet  made  out  of  the  skull 
of  Yoricky  the  King  of  Denmark^s  Jester,  a  noted  nmn  of 
their  fri'ternity  in  his  time,  he  was  voted  in  with  acclama- 
tion, I  soon  fouiid  that  Touchstone  was  the  orstor  and 
oracle  of  the  circle  ;  and  he  bad  just  finished  his  disser- 
tation upon  the  seven  causes,  and  was  reading  tin  m  a 
lecture  upon  things  in  general,  at  the  time  that  I  ap- 
proached the  party. 

After  leaving  this  facetious  group,  I  joined  a  party  of 
Supernatural  beings.  Among  them  I  found  that  mis- 
chievous fellow  Purk,  pretending  to  make  violent  love  to 
one  of  the  Weird  Sisters.  The  grim  lady  appeared  to 
be  much  flattered  by  his  attentions,  and  was  cooking  him 
a  delicate  dish  of  Hat's  liver,  baked  ;  which  she  proposed 
that  he  should  wash  down  with  a  cup  of  Baboon's  blood. 
The  waggish  Elf,  however,  was  continually  pestering  her, 
by  pinching  her  hips,  pulling  her  beard,  and  riding  away 
on  her  broom-stick.  Caliban  was  sprawling  on  th«  lap 
of  his  mother  Sycorax,  who  kissed  his  lips,  patted  his 
checks,  and  fondled  the  foul  monster  like  a  baby.  Tall 
ladies  are  said  to  be  fond  of  little  gentlemen,  and  accord- 
ingly I  found  that  Ifccate  had  been  a:uiltv  of  the  abductior. 


"Z54  MISCELLANEOUS 

of  Master  Peashlossom,  the  favourite  of  <^ueen  Titania, 
and  licad-scratcher  to  JYicholas  Botlom.  This  small 
Adonis  seemed  by  no  means  proud  of  the  lady's  attach- 
ment, and  was,  for  a  long  time,  vainly  plotting  his  escape  ; 
until  an  humble-bee  flying  past  them,  he  sprang  upon  its 
back,  and  rode  away  merrily  to  Fairy-land. 

I  next  met  two  ill-looking,  yet  evidently  blustering  fel- 
lows, moving  along  at  a  quick,  stealthy  pace,  and  casting 
many  an  alarmed  look  behind  them  ;  and  about  a  hundred 
yards  in  the  rear,  I  encountered  a  brace  of  sturdy-looking 
old  Gentlemen,  one  of  whom  carried  a  le<-k,  and  the 
other  a  cudgel  in  his  hand.  These  werp  indications  sulli- 
cient  to  inform  me  that  the  first-mentioned  |)air  were  those 
valorous  military  gentlemen.  Ensign  Pislol,  and  Captain 
Parolles ;  and  that  their  followers  were  the  wholesome 
disciplinarians,  Lajeu  and  Fluellen. 

Soon  afterward  1  found  two  persons  in  close  consul- 
tation, whose  scowling  brows,  darkened  countenances, 
and  heaving  bosoms,  denoted  much  mental  aflliction. 
They  were  weighing  clouds,  and  nie.isuiing  ants'  legs ; 
casting  up  ciphers,  fathoming  the  profundity  of  a  puddle, 
and  taking  the  dimensions  of  a  freckle  on  a  lady's  cheek,- 
which  they  viewed  through  a  powerful  magnifying  glass. 
The  result  always  appeared  to  astonish  and  distress  them 
exceedingly.  I  knew  the  first  by  his  black  visage  and 
martial  air,  to  be  Othello ;  and  guessed  that  the  other  was 
his  fellow-dupe  and  brother-sufferer,  Leonies. 

Lear,  Hamlet,  Jaqices,  and  Timon,  seemed  to  be  very 
close  associates.  Timon  was  giving  a  vehement  descrip- 
tion of  his  sufferings,  mental  and  bodily,  when  he  was 
interrupted  by  Lear,  who  asked  him  how  many  daughters 
he  had  ?  and  the  querist  shook  his  head  incredulously, 
when  he  was  answered  that  he  had  not  any.  Master 
Slender  passed  by  them,  scratching  his  head  violently; 
upon  which  Jaques,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  begged  him  to 
desist,  saying  that  the  small  animals  he  was  annoying, 
being  "  native  burghers"  of  his  land,  had  as  much  right 
to  inhabit  there,  as  he  had  to  occupy  the  ground  upon 
v/hich  he  stood.  Slender  thought  he  was  laughing  at  him, 
and  said  that  he  would  have  him  up  before  his  cousin, 
Robert  Shallow,  Esquire,  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  upon 


.1,       PROSE  AND  FOETRy.  255 

which  Hamlet  told  him  that  he  was  "  a  very,  very 

peacock  !"  and  bid  him  go  to  a  Nunnery. 

I  continued  ivalking  on,  and  soon  afterward  found 
myself  on  tlie  hanks  of  a  stream  which  was  of  a  very 
different  colour  from  any  that  I  had  ever  seen  before.  I 
at  first  imagined  that  this  must  be  Lethe,  or  a  brnnch 
thereor,  and  I  afterwcini  learned  that  the  latter  had  ori- 
ginally been  the  case;  but  that  such  was  the  antipathy 
between  things  Sliakspearean  and  Lethean,  that  as  soon 
as  the  first  of  our  Author's  characters  entered  these  Ely- 
sian  fields,  the  rivet^shrunk  from  its  channrl,  and  at 
length  left  it  completely  dry.  Every  one  was  nmch  puz- 
zled what  to  do  with  the  deserted  bed  of  the  river,  until, 
at  the  suggestion  of  Falstaff,  it  was  filled  with  sack  and 
sugar.  I  was,  therefore,  not  much  surprised  to  find  that 
worthy  knight  and  his  associates  seated  on  its  banks,  with 
wooden  bowls  in  their  hands,  where  they  were  joined  by 
several  strangers,  of  whom  Sir  Toby  Belch  was  the  chief, 
and  he  soon  became  a  favourite  with  his  brother  knight. 
Shallow  came  up  to  them,  and  very  gravely  remonstrated 
on  the  dissoluteness  ot  their  lives ;  but  finding  that  they 
^v'ould  not  leave  their  potations,  he  joined  them,  saying 
that  as  he  v/as  in  the  Commission,  he  might  probably  be 
useAil  in  preventing  a  breach  of  the  peace.  On  this  hint 
Dogberry  and  Verges  joined  the  party  ;  alleging,  that  as 
they  were  the  Prince's  officers,  they  could  execute  his 
worship's  warrant  if  necessary.  Sir  Hugh  Evans  sat 
himself^  next  to  Falstaff,  saying,  that  it  was  unbecoming 
Christian  men  to  follow  such  depraved  courses,  but  that 
if  they  would  just  give  him  one  cup  of  Sack,  he  would 
drink  to  the  amendment  of  their  lives. 

The  next  change  that  "  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my 
dream"  placed  me  among  a  group  of  Ladies.  There  I 
found  Rosalind  and  Beatrice  chatting  very  familiarly ; 
only  1  thought  that  the  gentle,  though  mirthful,  spirit  of 
the  former  seemed  occasionally  to  shrink  at  the  bitterness 
of  her  companion.  Imogene  and  Viola  were  walking, 
arm  in  arm,  very  lovingly  ;  as  were  also  Juliet  and  Desde- 
mona.  J\Irs.  Ford,  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Fenton,  late  *^nne 
Page,  and  numerous  other  gossips,  were,  seated  round  a 
tea-table,  and  inhaling  and  distributing  scandal  from  a 
beverage,  with  whieh  they  had  not  the  happiness  to  be 


'i» 


256  MISCELLANEOUS   PROSE,  ETC. 

acqiiainfed  in  the  world  above.  Mrs.  Quickly  was  attend- 
ing upon  them  very  busily,  though  she  contrived  to  bear 
as  l;»rge  a  share  in  the  conversation  as  the  ladies  them- 
selves. Such  a  clatter  and  a  din,  F  thought,  I  had  never 
heard  raised  before,  even  by  female  voices ;  when  sud- 
denly awaking,  1  found  ihat  the  noise  proceeded  from  my 
own  sweet-voice  1  better-half,  who  told  me  that  my  fire 
had  hurnt  out,  mv  caTtdlr  was  u,liu)meriiig  in  its  socket, 
and  that,  unless  I  speedily  roused  myself,  I  must  go  sup- 
perless  to  bed. 

"News  of  Literatuue,"  1826. 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  257 


THt; 


WINNER- OF  THE  MONTHS. 


Once  upon  a  time,  the  Months  detenuined  to  dine 
together.  They  were  a  long  while  deciding  who  should 
have  the  honour  -of  being  the  Host  upon  so  solemn  an 
occasion  ;  but  the  lot  at  length  fell  upon  December,  for 
although  this  old  gentleman's  manners  were  found  to  be 
rather  cold  upon  first  acquaintance,  yet  it  was  well  known 
that  when  once  you  got  under  his  roof,  there  was  not  a 
merrier,  or  more  hospitable,  person  in  existence.  The 
messenger  too,  Christmas  Day,  whom  he  sent  round  with 
his  cards  of  invitation,  won  the  hearts  of  all ;  although  he 
played  several  mad  pranks,  and  received  many  a  box  in 
return,  February  begged  to  be  excused  coming  to  the 
dinner,  as  she  was  in  very  bad  spirits  on  account  of  the 
loss  of  her  youngest  child,  the  twenty-ninth,  who  had 
lately  left  her,  and  was  not  expected  to  return  for  four 
years.  Her  objection,  however,  was  overruled ;  and 
being  seated  at  table  between  the  smiling  May,  and  that 
merry  old  lellow  October,  she  appeared  to  enjoy  tlte 
evening's  entertainment  us  much  as  any  of  the  company. 

The  dinner  was  a  superb  one  ;  all  the  company  liaving 
contributed  to  furnish  out  the  table.  January  thought  for 
the  thirtieth  time  what  he  should  give,  and  then  deter- 
minfd  to  send  a  calf's  head.  February  not  being  a  very 
productive  month,  was  also  a  little  pu/zled,  but  at  length 
resolved  to  contribute  an  enormous  cake,  which  she 
managed  to  manufacture  in  fine  style,  with  the  assistance 
of  her  servant  Valentine,  \^  ho  was  an  excellent  fellow  at 
that  sort  of  ware,  but  especially  at  bride-cake.     March 

Kk 


258  MISCELLANEOUS 

and  April  agreed  to  furnish  all  the  fish  ;  May  to  decorate 
the  dishes  with  flowers;  June  to  supply  plenty  of  excel- 
lent cider;  July  and  August  to  provide  the  dessert!  Sep- 
tember a  niaguifireiit  coursf  of  all  sorts  of  gan*,  excepting 
pheasants;  wliich  exception  was  supplied  by  October,  as 
well  as  a  couple  of  hampers  of  fine  home-brewed  ale  ;  and 
November  engaged  that  there  should  be  an  abundance  of 
ice.  The  rest  of  the  eatables,  and  all  the  wine,  were 
provided  by  the  worthy  host  himself. 

Just  before  sitting  down  to  ttible,  a  slight  squabble 
arose  about  precedency ;  sonie  ot  the  company  insisting 
that  the  first  in  rank  was  January,  and  some  that  it  was 
March.  The  host,  however,  decided  in  favour  of  January, 
whom  he  placed  in  the  seat  of  honour,  at  his  right  hand. 
November,  a  prim,  blue-nosed  old  maid,  sat  at  his  left ; 
and  June,  a  pleasant,  good-tempered  fellow,  although 
occasionally  rather  too  xoarm,  sat  opposite  him  at  the  end 
of  the  table. 

The  dinner  was  admirably  served.  Christmas-day  was 
the  principal  waiter ;  but  the  host  had  been  obliged  to 
borrow  the  attendance  of  some  of  his  guests'  servants, 
and  accordingly  Twelfth-night,  Shrove-Tuesday,  and 
Michaelmas-day,  oflftciated  in  various  departments  :  though 
Shrove-Tuesday  was  speedily  turned  out,  for  making 
rather  too  free  with  a  prim,  demure  servant-maid,  called 
Good-Friday,  while  she  was  toasting  some  hot-cross  buns 
for  the  tea-table. 

A  short,  squab  little  fellow,  called  St.  Thomas's-day, 
stood  behind  December's  chair,  and  officiated  as  toast- 
master  ;  and  much  merriment  was  excited  by  the  contrast 
between  the  diminutive  appearance  of  this  man,  and  the 
longest  day,  who  stood  behind  June,  at  the  other  end  of 
the  table.  Master  Thomas,  however,  was  a  very  useful 
fellow;  and  besides  performing  the  high  official  duty,  which 
we  have  mentioned,  he  drew  the  curtains,  stirred  the  fire, 
lighted  and  snuffed  the  candles,  and,  like  all  other  little 
jnen,  seemed  to  think  himself  of  more  importance  than 
any  body  else. 

The  pretty  blushing  May  was  the  general  toast  of  the 
company  ;  and  many  compliments  were  passed  upon  the 
elegant  manner  in  which  she  had  decorated  the  dishes. 
Old  January  tried  to  be  very  sweet  upon  her,  but  she 


PROSK    AND    POETRir.  259 

received  him  coldly  ;  as  he  was  known  not  to  be  a  loyal 
subject,  and  to  have  once  stolen  a  crown  and  sceptre,  and 
hidden  them  in  a  grave  ;  and  May,  who  was  loyal  to  the 
back-bone,  had  much  trouble  in  tinding  out,  and  restoring 
them,  January  at  length  ceased  to  persecute  her  with 
his  attentions,  and  tranferred  them  to  November,  who  was 
of  the  same  politics  as  himself,  although  she  had  not  been 
quite  so  successful  in  supporting  them.  Poor  May  had 
scarcely  got  rid  of  her  venerable  lover,  before  that  senti- 
mental swain  April,  began  to  tell  her  that  he  was  abso- 
lutely dying  for  her.  This  youth  was  one  moment  all 
sunshine,  and  smiles,  and  rapture  ;  and  the  next  he  dis- 
solved in  tears,  clouds  gathered  upon  his  brow,  and  he 
looked  a  fitter  suiter  for  November  than  for  May  ;  who 
having  at  last  hinted  as  much  to  him.  he  It  ft  her  in  a  huff, 
and  entered  into  close  conversation  with  September,  who 
although  much  his  senior,  resembled  him  in  many  parti- 
culars. '  • 

July,  who  was  of  a  desperately  hot  temper,  was  every 
now  and  then  a  good  deal  irritated  by  March,  a  dry  old 
fellow,  as  cool  as  a  cucumber,  who  was  continually  pass- 
ing his  jokes  upon  him.  At  one  time  July  went  so  far  as 
to  threaten  him  with  a  prosecution  for  something  he  had 
said  ;  but  March,  knowing  what  he  was  about,  always 
managed  to  keep  on  the  windy  side  of  the  law,  and  to 
throw  dust  in  the  ejes  of  his  accusers.  July,  however, 
contrived  to  have  his  revenge  ;  for,  being  called  upon  for 
a  song,  he  gave  "  The  dashing  White  Sergeant*^  in  great 
style,  and  laid  a  peculiar  emphasis  upon  the  words, 
"  March !  March  !  at^ay  /"  at  the  same  time  motioning  to 
his  antagonist  to  leave  the  room. 

April  having  announced  that  it  was  raining  hard,  Janu- 
ary was  much  perplexed  as  to  how  he  should  get  home, 
as  he  had  not  brought  his  carriage.  At  one  time,  when 
he  was  looking  very  anxiously  out  of  the  window  to  dis- 
cover if  there  were  any  stars  visible,  October,  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  May,  asked  him  if  he  thought  of  borrowing 
Charleses  wain  to  carry  him,  as  he  had  done  so  great  a 
kindness  to  its  proprietor  ?  This  put  the  old  fellow  into 
such  a  passion,  that  he  hastily  seized  his  head-gear,  a  red 
cap,  sallied  out  through  the  rain,  and  would  most  likely 


260  MISCELLANEOUS 

have  broken  his  neck  in  the  daik,  had  not  February  sent 
her  footman,  Candlemas-day,  after  him  with  a  lanthorn, 
by  whom  he  was  guided  in  safety  to  his  lodgings  in  Fog- 
alley. 

On  the  retirement  of  the  Ladies, —  February,  May, 
August,  and  November, — the  host  proposed  their  healths, 
which  were  drank  with  the  usual  honours;  when  April, 
being  a  soft-spoken  youth,  and  ambitious  of  distiriction 
as  an  orator,  began  to  return  thanks  for  them  in  a  very 
flowery  speech ;  but  was  soon  coughed  down  by  Decem- 
ber and  March  ;  and  March,  by  the  by,  at  length  got 
into  such  high  favour  with  his  old  enemy  July,  that  the 
latter  was  heard  to  give  him  an  Invitation,  saying,  that  if 
ever  he  came  to  his  side  of  the  Zodiac,  he  should  be  most 
happy  to  see  him.  October  told  the  Host  that,  with  his 
leave,  he  would  drink  no  more  wine,  but  that  he  should 
be  glad  of  some  good  home-brewed,  and  a  pipe.  To  this 
December  acceded,  and  said  he  should  be  happy  to  join 
him,  and  he  thought  his  friend  March  would  do  the  same. 
March  having  nodded  assent,  they  set  to,  and  a  pretty 
puffing  and  hloxcing  they  made  among  them.  April,  how- 
ever, continued  to  drink  Madeira  ;  while  June,  July, 
and  September,  stuck,  with  exemplary  constancy,  to  the 
Burgundy. 

After  repeated  summonses  to  the  drawing-room,  they 
joined  the  Ladies  at  the  tea-table.  November  drew  her- 
self up,  and  affected  to  be  quite  overpowered  by  the 
smell  of  smoke,  which  March,  October,  and  December 
had  brought  in  with  them  ;  although  it  was  well  known 
that  the  old  lady  herself  could  blow  a  cloud  as  well  as 
any  of  them.  October  seated  himself  by  May,  and  said 
he  hoped  that  his  pipe  would  not  have  the  same  effect 
upon  her,  as  upon  her  Aunt;  and  after  having  very 
gracefully  assured  him,  that  she  was  not  at  all  annoyed 
by  it,  he  told  her,  that  he  would  make  her  exercise  her 
own  sweet  pipe  before  the  evening  was  much  older  ; 
which,  instead  of  annoying,  would  delight  every  body. 
August,  a  grave  stately  matron  of  extraordinary  beauty, 
ahhough  perhaps  un  peu  passe,  officiated  as  tea-maker. 
Good-Friday,  who  by  this  time  had  recovered  the  fright 
into  which  Shrove-Tuesday    had  thrown   her,    handed 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  261 

about  the  toasted  buns,  and  Swlthin,  a  servant  of  July, 
was  employed  to  keep  the  tea-pot  supplied  with  water, 
which  he  too  often  did  to  overflowing. 

Tea  being  over,  the  old  folks  went  to  cards  ;  and  the 
young  ones,  including  Octobt  r,  who  managed  to  hide  his 
years  very  successfully,  to  the  Piano-forte.  May  was  the 
Prima  Donna,  and  delighted  every  one,  especially  poor 
April,  who  was  alternately  all  smiles  and  tears,  during  the 
whole  of  her  performance.  October  gave  them  a  hunting 
Song,  which  caused  even  the  card-tables  to  be  deserted  ; 
and  August  sang  a  sweet  melancholy  Canzonet  which 
was  rapturously  encored.  April  both  sang  and  played 
most  unmercifully  ;  but  the  company  had  an  ugly  trick 
of  yawning  over  his  comic  songs,  and  were  ready  to 
expire  with  laughter  at  his  pathetics. 

At  length.  Candlemas-day  having  returned  from  seeing 
old  January  home,  his  mistress  February  took  leave  of 
the  company.  April,  who  was  a  little  the  worse  for  the 
wine  he  had  drunk,  insisted  on  escorting  November ; 
although  she  had  several  servants  in  waiting,  and  her  road 
was  in  an  opposite  direction  to  his  own.  May  went 
away  in  her  own  carriage,  and  undertook  to  set  June 
down,  who  lived  very  near  her.  The  road  was  hilly  and 
steep,  but  her  coachman,  Ascension-day,  got  the  horses 
very  well  (o  the  top ;  and  July  and  August  both  walked 
home,  each  preceded  by  a  dog-day,  with  a  lighted  torch. 
September  and  October,  Avho  were  next-door  neigh- 
bours, went  away  in  the  same  hackney-coach ;  and 
March  departed  as  he  came,  on  the  back  of  a  rough 
Shetland  pony. 

"  News  of  Literature,"  1826. 


EVBRY    DAV   AT   BREAKFAST. 


The  Seven  Days  of  the  Week,  hearing  that  the  Months 
bad  dined  together,  were  not  a  little  vexed  and  puzzled 
at  the  circumstance,  being  anxious  to  do  something  of 
the  same  sort,  and  yet  feeling  that  they  were  by  no  means 
in  a  condition  to  manage  the  affair  so  splendidly  as  their 
rivals.  Every  one  knows  that  a  Month  is  a  person 
whose  importance  is,  at  least,  eight  and  twenty  times 
superior  to  that  of  a  Day,  and,  therefore,  for  the  latter 
to  attempt  to  emulate  the  former,  would  have  been  only 
a  practical  illustration  of  the  fable  of  the  Ox  and  the 
Frog.  Still,  as  the  Days  very  significantly  asked,  "  What 
would  the  Months  be  without  them  1"  It  was,  therefore, 
unanimously  resolved,  that  they  should  have  some  meal 
or  other  together,  to  show  their  spirit ;  and,  as  a  Dinner 
was  out  of  the  question,  it  was  at  length  determined  that 
they  should  have  a  Breakfast  instead,  and  that  Monday, 
the  first  lay  day — not  lady,-— of  the  week,  should  have 
the  honour  of  being  their  entertainer. 

Before  entering  upon  a  detail  of  what  passed  at  Break- 
fast, I  may  as  well  introduce  my  dramatis  persons  to  my 
Readers.  Monday,  the  Host,  had  the  reputation,  among 
many  persons,  of  being  a  /una-tic,  an  idea  to  which  his 
name  gave  some  sort  of  countenance.  He  was,  how- 
ever, as  far  as  I  could  learn,  a  jovial,  good-tempered 
fellow,  whom  every  body  liked,  although  a  little  wild  and 
eccentric.  He  was  too  fond  of  encouraging  the  lower 
orders  to  lie  in  bed  in  the  morning,  and  to  spend  the  rest 
of  the  day  in  idleness  and  drunkenness  ;  and  was  conse- 
quently much  reverenced  by  that  class  of  people,  who 
went  so  far  as  to  canonize  him  under  the  title  of  Saint 
Monday.  He  was,  at  the  same  time,  not  without  his 
enemies  ;  for,  frequently  having  occasion  to  escort  some 


MISCELLANEOUS    PROSE,    ETC.  26^ 

young  urchins  to  School  at  the  expiration  of  the  vaca- 
tions, they  fixed  upon  him  the  nickname  of  Black 
Monday. 

Tuesday  bore  a  great  resemblance  to  her  next-door 
neighbour ;  but  she  was,  on  the  whole,  a  much  steadier 
person.  She  was,  nevertheless,  a  great  frequenter  of 
festivals ;  and  at  Easter,  Whitsuntide,  and  Shrovetide, 
there  was  no  one  better  known  than  she  :  especially  as 
she  was  also  particularly  celebrated  for  her  skill  in  the 
manufacture  of  pancakes. 

Wednesday  was  an  Irish  Catholic  Priest ;  very  zealous 
and  very  scrupulous,  but  withal  a  merry,  good-humoured 
person.  He  was  particularly  anxious  about  the  observa- 
tion of  fast  days.  Fasting,  he  said,  being  a  peremptory 
injunction  of  the  Church;  though  he  would  add,  in  an 
under  tone,  it  should  never  be  done  on  an  empty  stomach. 

Thursday  had  no  distinguishing  features  of  character  ; 
he  was  a  "  fellow  of  no  mark  or  likelihood  ;''  one  of 
those  harmless,  innocent,  insipid  persons  who  are  met 
with  at  every  table,  whether  it  be  at  Breakfast,  Dinner, 
or  Supper.  Sometimes,  when  he  was  drunk,  he  would 
take  it  into  his  head  to  boast  of  his  descent  from  the 
Saxon  divinity,  Thor,  a  piece  of  Pagan  exultation,  which 
excited  great  horror  in  all  companies. 

Friday  was  a  prim  old  Lady,  of  the  same  religious 
persuasion  with  Wednesday.  She  was,  however,  most 
celebrated  for  being  a  very  unlucky  person ;  as  she  never 
sat  down  to  table  without  crossing  her  knife  and  fork, 
spilling  the  salt,  or  being  the  occasion  of  some  other 
inauspicious  omen. 

Saturday  was  a  Jewish  Rabbi  of  great  learning,  zeal, 
and,  in  his  own  way,  Piety.  He,  however,  carried  his 
liberality  so  far  as  to  have  no  objection  to  take  a  Break- 
fast or  Dinner  with  a  Christian  :  provided  that  the  said 
Breakfast  or  Dinner  was  gratis,  and  was  a  good  one, 

Sunday  was  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  ; 
and  most  particularly  orthodox,  especially  in  his  prefer- 
ence of  Port  wine  to  that  Frenchified,  papistical  beverage, 
Claret.  He  hated  the  Roman  Catholics,  principally  on 
account  of  their  advocacy  of  fasting.  The  Romish  Church 
has  very  reasonably  complained  that  its  tenets  are  not 
understood  bv  Protestants,  and,  had  the  worthy  divine 


2()4  MISCELLANEOUS 

been  a  little  more  in  the  secret,  1  sus])ect  that  he  woulil 
not  have  found  their  fasts  quite  such  self-denying  ordi- 
nances as  he  imagined.  He  moreover  heartily  despised 
the  Jews  for  iheir  creed  generally,  but  particularly  be- 
cause they  disliked  roasted  pig,  even  though  it  should  be  a 
a  tithe-pig.  He  was,  nevertheless,  a  person  of  great 
learning,  talent,  and  benevolence ;  and  took  much  pains 
to  instruct  and  edify  the  lower  classes.  Since  the  days 
of  CroniAvell,  however,  he  had  become  a  little  puritanical. 
He  would  sometimes  take  offence  at  being  designated  by 
his  right  name,  and  insist  upon  being  called  the  Sabbath  : 
a  title,  the  possession  of  which,  Saturday  would  always 
dispute  with  him,  and,  in  the  opinion  of  many,  both 
Jews  and  Christians,  the  latter  had  most  reason  on  his 
side. 

They  were  in  no  want  of  attendants,  for  they  had  all 
the  four-and-twenty  hours  at  their  beck  and  call.  They 
contented  themselves,  however,  with  the  services  of  four, 
namely.  Morning,  Noon,  Evening,  and  Midnight.  The 
first  was  a  rosy  faced  boy,  very  handy  and  clever,  who 
waited  at  table.  Noon  was  the  cook  ;  and  she  laboured 
hard  in  her  vocation,  as  her  burning  cheeks  and  greasy 
forehead  demonstated.  Evening,  a  pretty  black-eyed 
brunette,  received  the  dishes  at  the  door  ;  and  Midnight,  a 
strong,  broad-backed  negro,  officiated  at  the  side-board  in 
the  character  of  butler. 

Before  sitting  down  to  breakfast,  Sunday  was  called 
upon  to  say  grace,  which  he  did  rather  lengthily.  During 
the  time  which  he  thus  occupied,  the  Catholics  told  their 
beads  ;  the  Jew  put  his  tongue  into  his  left  cheek  ;  Mon- 
day yawned  ;  Tuesday's  mouth  watered  ;  and  Thursday 
stared  at  the  reverend  orator  with  eyes  and  mouth  wide 
open,  and  features,  which  indicated  at  the  same  time 
wonder  and  impatience,  expressing,  as  well  as  dumb  looks 
could,  the  same  sentiments  as  Christopher  Sly  when  at 
the  theatre,  "'Tis  a  most  excellent  piece  of  work  ! — would 
't  were  done  !" 

The  Dejennf  was,  of  course  d  la  fourchette.  So  dis- 
tinguished a  company  could  not  be  expected  to  sit  down 
to  a  dnary  cockney  breakfast,  composed  of  a  cup  of 
sugared  slop,  and  a  bit  of  grilled  bread,  smeared  over  with 
butter.     The  fish,  according  to  the  French  fashion,  was 


PROSE  AND  POETRV.  266 

not  the  first,  but  the  third  course  ;  an  arrangement  which 
Wccinesday  highly  approved  of,  because,  he  said,  it  gave 
him  an  opportunity  of  satisfying  both  his  appetite  and  his 
conscience  ;  as  he  could  breakfast  upon  flesh  and  fowl 
first,  and  fast  upon  the  fish  afterward  ;  whereas,  a  fast 
once  commenced,  no  Christian  ought  to  break  it  until  the 
appointed  period. 

Friday,  who,  at  the  request  of  the  host,  occupied  the 
head  of  the  table,  did  nothing  but  commit  blunders,  both 
in  her  feeding  and  her  carving.  She  ate  the  bread  of  her 
neighbour  on  her  right  hand,  drank  the  wine  of  him  on 
her  left,  and  loaded  the  Jew's  plate  with  huge  slices  of  ham, 
the  quality  of  which  the  latter  contrived  not  to  find  out  until 
after  he  had  swallowed  them. 

The  Divine,  having  somewhat  blunted  his  appetite, 
began  to  think  about  the  Protestant  faith,  and  commenced 
a  furious  attack  upon  the  Priest,  for  the  worship  of  images. 
The  latter  having  at  last  convinced  him  that  the  Papists 
entertained  no  such  tenet,  Master  Sunday  shifted  his 
ground,  and  said  that  if  they  were  not  guilty  of  that  species 
of  idolatry,  no  one  could  deny  that  they  worshipped  the 
golden  calf:  a  jest  at  which  he  himself  laughed  heartily. 
Wednesday  answered  it  by  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
saying,  that  he  had  heard  as  much  imputed  to  the  clergy 
of  the  reformed  church  ;  that  it  .was  at  least  certain  that 
they  worshipped  the  fatted  calf  of  good  flesh  and  blood ; 
and  that  they  not  merely  coveted  but  got  possession  of 
their  neighbours'  goods,  as  they  cared  more  about  the 
tenth  calf  than  the  tenth  commandment.  The  dispute 
threatening  to  grow  rather  warm,  the  host,  to  put  an  end 
to  it,  called  upon  Wednesday  for  a  toast:  not  a  very  com- 
mon thing,  perhaps,  to  do  at  breakfast ;  but  this,  you  will 
remember,  gentle  reader,  was  rather  an  uncommon  break- 
fast party.  Wednesday,  like  a  good  Catholic,  immediately 
gave — "the  memory  of  the  Saints;''  upon  which  Monday 
rose  up  and  said,  that,  as  he  was  the  only  Saint  f)resent, 
be  begged  leave  to  return  thanks  for  the  honour  just  con- 
ferred. Friday  looked  very  grave,  and  seemed  shocked 
at  the  impiety  of  the  host ;  but  Wednesday  only  laughed, 
and  said  they  would  dispense  v/ith  Monday's  s])cech,  if  he 
would  favour  them  with  a  song.  This  proposal  being 
unanimously  supported,  Monday,  after  the  usual  apolo- 

TJ    "^ 


266  MISCELLANEOUS 

gctic  preliminaries,  such  as  "bad  cold, — can't  remembei,. 
-well, — ahem  !" — began  as  follows  : — 

"Talk  of  (lays  that  arc  ffone!  why  they  're  all  left  behind. 
From  Monday  and  Tuesday  to  Sunday  ; 
Talk  of  losing  a  day  !  why  I  never  could  find 
A  man  clever  enough  to  lose  one  day. 

Once  a  Pleiad  vpas  lost,  'twas  an  awkward  aflair. 

liut  'twas  felt  less  in  earth  than  in  heaven  ; 
If  all  seven  were  lost,  man  would  feel  little  care, 

To  whom  seven  happy  days  are  still  given. 

Come,  fill  me  a  bumper  of  Claret  or  Port : 

One  is  brightest,  the  other  is  strongest  ; 
May  the  days  of  our  happiness  never  be  short. 

And  the  day  we  love  best  be  the  longest !" 

By  this  time,  Thursday  was  particularly  drunk,  and, 
feeling  that  he  had  a  sufficient  portion  of  wine,  began  to 
want  punch,  a  wish  which  Wednesday  observed  was  na- 
tural enough  in  Judy  (Jeiidi),  as  the  French  called  him. 
Coffee  being  handed  about,  he  contented  himself  with  that 
beverage,  and  the  eau-de-vie  which  accompanied  it.  Being 
very  anxious  to  exhibit  his  vocal  powers,  he  at  last  managed 
to  get  the  ear  of  the  company,  and  bawled,  or  rather  hie- 
cuped  out,  the  following  Stanzas : — 

"  Come,  fill  up  the  tankard,  the  wisest  man  drank  hard, 
And  said,  that,  when  sunken  in  care, 
The  best  cure,  he  should  think,  would  be  found  in  good 
drink. 
For  where  can  cures  lurk,  if  not  there  ? 

Trowl,  trowl,  the  bonny  brown  bowl ! 

Let  the  dotard  and  fool  from  it  flee  ; 
Ye  sages,  wear  ivy  ;  and,  fond  fellows,  wive  ye  ; 

But  the  bonny  brov/n  bowl  for  me  ! 

Let  old  Time  beware,  for  if  he  should  dare 
To  intrude  'mong  companions  so  blithe, 
We  '11  lather  his  chin  with  the  juice  of  the  bin, 
j  And  shave  off  his  beard  with  his  scythe." 


PROSE  AND  POETRV.  267 

This,  however,  was  all  of  his  song  that  poor  Thursday 
could  remember  ;  and  soon  afterward  he  fell  back  in  his 
chair,  and  was  carried  out  of  the  room  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  black  butltr. 

The  Ladies,  Tuesday  and  Friday,  now  looked  at  their 
watches  ;  and  although  they  knew  perfectly  well  what  the 
time  was  before  they  looked,  the}  affecting  to  be  vastly  sur- 
prised when  they  discovered  that  it  was  near  two  o'clock. 
They,  therefore,  took  iheir  leave  ;  Friday  looked  very 
significantly  at  Wednesday,  as  much  as  to  request  him  to 
escort  her  home,  a  mode  of  asking  which  he  did  not  choose 
to  understand  ;  but  he  gave  feer  his  blessing. 

Sunday  now  began  to  express  very  liberal  sentiments  as 
the  wine  warmed  within  him.  He  said  that  we  were  in- 
debted to  the  Catholics  for  M  gna  Charta,  and  the  foun- 
dation of  those  magnificent  seats  of  learning  and  piety 
which  we  now  possessed ;  and  he  talked  to  Saturday 
about  "  God's  ancient  people,  the  Jews  "  Monday,  who 
was  nothing  of  a  divine,  was,  nevertheless,  happy  to  see 
so  much  harmony  among  his  guests,  and  assented  to  every 
thing  that  was  said,  whether  by  Papist,  Protestant,  or 
Israelite.  Sunday,  hov/ever,  at  length  bethought  himself 
of  his  cloth,  and  of  the  time,  and  having  mumbled  a  thanks- 
giving grace,  which  was  neither  so  long,  nor  so  well  arti- 
culated, as  that  before  breakfast,  the  party  broke  up,  and 
each  man  took  his  departure,  not  remarkably  well  quali- 
fied for  the  duties  of  the  day. 

"News  op  Literature,"  1826. 


A    YOUNG    FAMIIiY. 


You  must  know,  most  dear  and  courteous  reader,  that 
I  am  a  Bachelor :  not  an  #ld  one,  Heaven  forbid  !  but 
one  of  whom  the  ladies  say,  "  What  a  pity  it  is  that  Mr. 
Wiggins  does  not  marry  !"  The  fact  is,  I  am  sole  lord  of 
my  hours,  and  of  my  limbs.  If  I  stay  out  late,  I  need 
neither  lie,  nor  look  sulky,  when  I  get  home.  I  need  not 
say,  "My  dear  Peggy,  I  really  was  the  first  to  come 
away ;"  nor  run  the  fearful  alternative  of  either  losing 
good  company,  or  enduring  a  curtain-lecture.  Besides 
all  this,  I  am  not  surrounded  by  a  sweet  young  family  : 
but  of  that  "  anon,  anon.  Sir.'' 

Having  thus  introduced  myself  to  your  notice,  allow 
me  to  perform  the  same  kind  office  for  one  of  my  friends. 
George  Cheviot  and  I  were  schoolfellows.  He  was 
neither  very  wise  nor  very  rich  ;  but  he  was  merry,  and 
good  tempered  :  qualities  which  I  could  then  better  ap- 
preciate than  the  others,  and  which  1  am  still  heretical 
enough  to  think  the  most  valuable  of  the  quartette.  He 
was,  moreover,  "  a  tall  fellow  of  his  hands,''  and  as  brave 
as  a  lion  ;  and  I,  I  don't  blush  to  own  it,  was  a  weak, 
puny  chitling,  and,  as  it  is  called  in  school  phraseology, 
wanted  soinebody  to  take  my  part.  George,  accordingly, 
fought  my  battles,  while  I  wrote  his  exercises ;  and  thus 
we  became  sworn  associates.  We  played,  and  romped, 
and  rioted  together ;  and,  hke  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield's 
parties,  what  we  wanted  in  wit  we  made  up  in  laughter ; 
whicli,  after  all,  1  still  consider  the  better  thing  of  the  two. 

After  leaving  school,  we  both  settled  in  the  great  city, 
until  George,  who  had  a  touch  of  the  sentimental  in  his 
character,  fell  in  love  with,  and  married,  a  journey-woman 
milliner ;  the  consequence  of  which  was  that  all  his 
friends  cut  him,  and  none  of  his  family  would  go  within 


MISCELLANEOUS    PROSE,    ETC.  26i) 

a  mile  of  his  residence.  For  my  own  part,  I  make  it  a 
rule  to  cut  all  my  friends  as  soon  as  they  get  married  :  I 
do  not  like  the  transformation  of  a  merry,  frank,  sociable 
companion,  into  an  important  tamily  man.  Neither  do  I 
like  their  invariable  practice  of  laying  every  fault  upon 
the  shoulders  of  their  bachelor  acquaintances  ;  for  I  have 
known  more  than  one  man,  who,  when  rated  by  his  amia- 
ble helpmate  for  his  late  hours,  has  excused  himself  by 
saying,  "  My  dear  Mr.  Wiggins  would  not  let  me  come 
away."  Notwithstanding  the  tenacity  with  which  I  usu- 
ally adhere  to  tiiis  rule,  1  determined  to  make  an  exception 
in  favour  of  poor  George.  His  grandfather  had  been  a 
butcher,  and  his  father  a  master  carpenter,  and  therefore 
it  is  not  surprising  that  his  mother  should  be  shocked  at 
his  demeaning  himself  so  vastly.  I,  however,  who  have 
always  been  of  opinion  that,  in  a  free  country  like  ours, 
a  man  has  a  right  to  make  a  fool  of  himself,  if  he  chooses, 
looked  at  the  afiair  with  different  eyes,  and  we  continued 
as  warm  and  friendly  as  ever.  Although  I  did  not  call  at 
his  house,  we  met  at  our  usual  places  of  resort  ;  and  I 
found  less  difference  in  George  than  in  most  of  my  mar- 
ried acquaintances.  He  was,  nevertheless,  constantly 
expatiating  on  the  joys  of  a  married  life,  and  especially  of 
seeing  a  young  family  growing  up  about  you ;  of  "  teach- 
ing the  young  idea  how  to  shoot ;''  and  of  watching  the 
archness,  the  vivacity,  and  the  simplicity,  of  the  pretty 
prattlers.  One  day  when  he  was  particularly  eloquent 
on  these  topics,  and  I  was  as  acquiescent  and  insincere  as 
a  man  ought  to  be  on  such  occasions,  he  extoi  ted  from 
me  a  promise  to  dine  with  him,  that  I  might  have  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  him  surrounded  with  his  young  family. 

The  appointed  day  arrived,  and  I  was  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  my  friend,  and  his  lady.  She  was  dressed 
very  finely,  had  a  mincing  air  of  gentility,  and  I  should 
have  thought  her  rather  pretty,  if  no  one  had  said  any 
thing  about  her.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  stood  a 
cradle,  and  close  by  it — no  matter  what ;  socks,  and  caps, 
and  ribands,  were  thrown  about  the  room  in  "  most 
admired  disorder;"  the  chimney  smoked  ;  several  panes 
of  the  window  were  broken ;  and  three  or  four  squalid, 
dirty-faced  children  were  sprawling  on  the  ground,  and 
roaring  very  lustily.     "  That  is  a  sweet  little  fellow. 


370  IMISCELLANEOUS 

Madam,"  said  I ; — Heaven  forgive  me  lor  the  lie  ! — point- 
ing to  a  blear-eyed,  bloated-cheeked  cupid  in  her  arms. 

"It 's  a  girl,  Sir,"  said  she,  bursting  into  a  horse  laugh  ; 
"  yes !"  she  added,  patting  the  bloated  cheek  aforesaid, 
"  and  it  is  a  girl,  though  he  thought  it  was  a  boy,  my 
pretty  !" 

This  was  the  commencement  of  mybacalarean  blunders, 
and  the  lady  for  some  time  regarded  me  with  a  coutt  mpt, 
which,  had  I  mistaken  her  own  sex,  could  hardly  have 
been  surpassed. 

To  recover  myself  from  my  confusion  I  took  a  pinch  of 
snuff;  my  friend  and  his  wife  begged  to  participate  in  the 
contents  of  my  box,  which  they  had  no  sooner  done,  than 
every  obstrepermis  urchin  in  the  room  roared  out  to  be 
allowed  to  do  the  same.     This  petition  was  followed  by  a 
half-angry    altercation   between  husband    and    wife,   the 
former   saying,   "  Oh  let  them,  pretty  dears  !"    and  the 
latter,   "  Indeed   they   shall   not."     The   cause  of  indul- 
gence, however,  triumphed  ;  and  every  dirty  pug-nose  in 
the  room,  was  speedily  made  dirtier,  at  the  expense  of  my 
black  rappee.     The  consequences  maj  easily  be  guessed  : 
a  round  of  sneezing,   sniveUing,   coughing,  crying,  and 
scolding,  commenced,  until  the  adventure  was  closed  by  a 
general  wiping  of  eyes,  and  blowing  of  noses,  throughout 
the  apartment.     For  myself  I  did   nothmg  but  commit 
blunders  all  the  while  I  was  in  the  house.     Now  my  foot 
was  on  the  nose  of  one,  and  now  my  elbow  was  in  the 
eye  of  another ;  and  I  could   not   stir   an  inch   without 
being  in  danger  of  dislocating  a  boy's  neck,  or  fracturing 
a  girl's  cranium.      I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  be   thought  a 
sad  barbarian,  for  not  being  rapturously  fond  of  children  : 
but  give  me  a  cat,  say  I  ;  I  can  play  with  that  as  long  as 
I  please,  and  kick  it  out  of  the  room  when  I  'm  tired  of  it. 
The  announcement  that  dinner  was  ready  relieved  me, 
at  least  for  a  time,  from  my  many  miseries.     While  de- 
scending the  stairs,  George  whispered  in  my  ear,  asking 
me,  if  I  did  not  think  him  the  happiest  fellow  in  the  world, 
to  which  I  replied,  "  My  dear  boy,  I  quite  envy  you.'' 
We  sat  down  to  table,  and  after  many  apologies  from  the 
lady,  who  hoped  that  I  should  find  something  to  my  liking, 
but  who  feared  that  her  fare  would  be  found  but  homely, 
as  her  time  was  so  much  occupied  by  her  young  family) 


PROSE  AND  POETRY.  '271 

the  dishes  were  uncovered.  Whatever  the  dinner  might 
be  in  fact,  I  found  that  it  was  intended  to  be  considered  a 
very  good,  and  even  a  handsome  one.  The  lady,  who 
before  her  marriage,  had  lived  at  the  west  end  of  the 
town,  where  she  made  shifts, — in  more  senses  than  one, — 
petticoats,  and  mantuas,  in  a  garret,  wished  to  pass  for  a 
person  of  some  taste  and  fashion.  Accordingly,  the  table, 
instead  of  the  ordinary  viands  which  the  Englishman 
delighteth  to  masticate,  exhibited  a  profusion  of  would-be 
French  and  Italian  dishes.  Of  these  I  merely  counter- 
feited to  eat,  excepting  one  or  two  ;  among  which  was  a 
fricassee,  for  so  my  hostess  st}led  a  blue-looking  leg  of  a 
fowl,  floating  in  a  sea  of  dirty  lard  and  salt  butter,  and  a 
plate  of  macaroni,  so  called,  which  tasted  exceedingly  like 
melted  tallow.  The  best  thing  which  I  could  get  hold  of, 
was  a  bottle  of  their  Champagne,  which  was  really  very 
tolerable  Perry.  Our  dinner  did  not,  however,  pass  over 
without  the  usual  accompaniment  of  much  uproariousness 
from  the  room  above,  which  the  sweet  young  family 
continued  to  occupy,  and  Betty  was  every  five  minutes 
despatched  from  the  dining-room  to  still  "  the  dreadful 
pother  o'er  our  heads." 

Lord  By roB  says, —  i 

a  fine  family  "s  a  fine  thing, 


Provided  they  dont  come  in  after  dinner," 

and  I  agree  with  him ;  especially  in  the  proviso.  At  my 
friend  George's,  however,  the  young  family  was  introduced 
with  the  dessert.  The  eldest,  a  wide-mouthed,  round- 
shouldered  girl,  took  possession  of  the  better  half  of  my 
chair  ;  where  she  amused  herself  the  greater  part  of  the 
evening  by  picking  clerries  out  of  my  plate,  and  spitting 
the  stones  into  it.  The  sweet  innocent  whose  sex  I  had 
aspersed,  filled,  and  well  filled,  the  arms  of  mamma ;  and 
two  greedy,  greasy  boys  stood  one  on  each  side  of  my 
worthy  host.  These  contrived  to  entertain  themselves  in  a 
variety  of  ways  :  putting  their  fingers  into  the  preserves ; 
drinking  out  of  their  father's  wine-glass  ;  eating  till  their 
stomachs  were  crammed  to  satiety,  and  bellowing  out 
bravely  for  more.     As  a  variety,  we  were  occasionally 


27)2  MISCELLANEOUS 

treated  with  crying,  scolding,  and  threats  of  a  whipping, 
which  operation  I  at  one  time  positively  expected  to  see 
performed  in  my  presence.     At  length  the  lady  and  the 
«  family"  retireii,  and  amidst  boasting  of  his  happiness  on 
George's  part,  and  felicitations  on  mine,  wc  continued  to 
ply  the  l)0ttle.     Rather  to  my  surprise,  I  found  that  the 
port-wine  was  admirable,  but  poor  George,  as  1  afterward 
learned,  had  sent  for  two  or  three  bottles  from  a  neigh- 
bouring tavern,  for  which  he  had  paid  an  admirable  price. 
After  emptying  the  decanters  on  the  table,  I  found  that  I 
had  had   enough,  aud   proposed   joining  the  interesting 
domestic  group  upstairs.     In  consequence,  however,  of 
my  friend  being  very  pressing,  and  of  my  being  "  nothing 
loath,"  I  consented  that  another  bottle  should  be  broached. 
The  order  to  that  effect  being  speedily  communicated  to 
Betty,  she  met  it  with  the  astounding  reply,  "  There  is  no 
more,  Sir."     Although  1  told  my  friend  that  I  was  glad  of 
it,  and  that  I  had  drunk  quite  sufficient,  his  chagrin  was 
manifest.     He  assured  me  that  although  his  wine-cellar 
was  exhausted,  he  had  plenty  of  spirits  and  cigars,  of 
which  he  proposed  that  we  should  immediately  avail  our- 
selves.    To  this,  however,  I  positively  objected,  especially 
as  i  knew  that  the  ci-devant  journey-woman  milliner,  con- 
sidered smoking  ungenteel. 

I  have  but  little  more  to  tell  you  ;  we  adjourned  to  the 
tea-table,  where  nothing  passed  worth  recording.  The 
family  was  again  introduced,  for  the  purpose  of  kissing 
all  roimd,  previous  to  their  retirement  to  bed.  "  Kiss  the 
gentleman.  Amy,"  said  the  lady;  "and,  Betty,  wipe  her 
face  first ;  how  can  you  take  her  to  the  gentleman  in  such 
a  state  ?"  Betty  having  performed  this  very  requisite  opera- 
tion, I  underwent  the  recjuired  penance  from  one  and  all, 
with  the  heroism  of  a  martyr.  Shortly  alterward  I  took 
leave  of  my  worthy  host  and  hostess,  and  experienced  a 
heartfelt  delight  when  I  heard  the  door  close  behind  me. 
I  am  not  in  the  habit,  like  Sterne,  of  falling  down  on  my 
knees  in  the  streets,  or  clasping  my  hands  with  delight,  in 
a  crowded  highway.  Still  1  could  not  help  feeling,  that 
few  as  were  my  positive  causes  of  rejoicing,  I  was  not  de- 
void of  some  negative  ones ;  and,  above  all,  I  felicitated 
myself,  that  I  was  not  the  happiest  fellow  in  the  world ; 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  275 

that  I  had  not  married  a  journey-woman  milliner ;  and 
that  1  was  not  blessed  with  a  sweet  young  famil)' :  as  my 
recent  experience  of  the  latter  comibri  had  induced  me 
to  think  that  king  Herod  was  really  not  quite  so  cruel  as 
I  had  hitherto  considered  him. 

"News  of  Literature,"  1826. 


M  iri 


THK    COMET. 


A  FEW  years  ago  at  the  little  fishing  town,  or  rather 
tillage,  of  G.,  on  the  coast  of  Cornwall,  resided  a  genllec 
man,  who,  from  his  appearance,  might  be  estimated  to  be 
nearly  sixty  years  of  age  ;  though  I  have  since  learned 
that  he  was  not  more  than  forty.  Whatever  his  age  might 
be,  he  was  more  than  suspected  to  be  the  old  gentleman ; 
that  is  to  say,  no  other  than  the  Devil  himself.  Now  I, 
who  happened  to  be  obliged,  for  the  arrangement  of  some 
family  affairs,  to  reside  a  month  or  two  at  G.,  had  the 
misfortune  to  differ  from  my  worthy  neighbours  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  o»-cu|)»nt  of  the  old  manor-house,  with  the 
enemy  of  mankind.  In  the  first  place,  his  dn  ss  bore  no 
sort  of  resemblance  to  that  of  Beelzr'bub.  The  last  ()er- 
son  who  had  the  g<tod  fortune  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  real 
Devil  was  the  late  Professor  Porson,  ar.-l  he  has  taken  the 
pains  to  describe  his  apparel  very  minutely,  so  that  I  am 
enabled  to  speak  with  some  degree  of  confidenre  upon 
this  part  of  the  subjtct.  The  Professor's  description  runs 
thus:  — 

"  And  pray,  how  was  the  Devil  drest? 
Oh  !  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best : 
His  coat  was  black,  and  his  breeches  were  blue, 
With  a  hole  behind  that  his  tail  went  through. 

And  over  the  hill,  and  over  the  dale,    • 

And  he  rambled  over  the  plain  ; 
And  backwards  and  fonvards  he  switch'd  his  long  tail, 

As  a  gentleman  switches  his  cane." 

The  "  complement  externe"  of  the  old  gentleman  at  G. 
was  quite  the  reverse  of  all  these.  In  the  first  place,  he 
had  no  Sunday's  best :  the  Sabbath  and  the  working  day 
mm  him  in  precisely  the  same  habiliments,  a  circum- 


MISCELLANEOUS    PROSE,  ETC.  275 

Stance  which  confirmed  the  towns-people  in  their  opinion ; 
whereas  I  have  no  less  an  authority  than  that  of  Porson 
for  deducing  an  opposite  conclusion  from  the  same  pre- 
mises ;  because  the  Devil  is  scrupiilously  particular  about 
his  Sunday's  apparel.  Then  again  he  was  never  seen  in 
a  coat,  but  always  wore  a  loose  morning-gown.  This, 
however,  was  a  circumstance  which,  in  the  opinion  of  all, 
told  decidedly  against  him  ;  for  why  should  he  always  wear 
that  gown,  unless  it  was  for  the  purpose  of  hiding  his  tail 
beneath  its  ample  folds  1  The  goodwives  of  the  town  were 
especially  pertinacious  upon  this  point,  and  used  to  eye 
the  lower  part  of  the  old  gentleman's  garment  very  sus- 
piciously as  he  took  his  morning's  walk  upon  the  beach. 
As  to  his  rambling  over  hill  and  dale,  in  the  manner  men- 
tioned by  the  learned  Professor,  that  was  quite  out  of  the 
question  ;  for  he  was  a  great  sufferer  by  the  gout,  and 
wore  bandages  as  large  as  a  blanket  round  his  leg. 
Whenever  this  fact  was  mentioned,  the  gossips  used  to 
smile,  shake  their  heads,  and  look  particularly  wise  :  ob- 
serving, that  it  was  clearly  a  stratagem  v/hich  he  resorted 
to  for  the  purpose  of  concealing  his  cloven  foot. 

Another  circumstance  ought  not  to  be  omitted :  he 
never  went  to  the  parish  church,  the  only  place  of  wor- 
ship within  twenty  miles :  and  after  he  left  G.  an  ivory 
crucifix  vras  found  in  his  house,  over  which  there  was  no 
doubt,  in  the  opinion  of  the  neighbours,  that  he  used  to 
say  the  Lord's  Prayer  backwards,  and  repeat  a  variety  of 
diabolical  incantations.  I  ventured  humbly  to  suggest 
that  his  absence  from  church,  and  the  discovery  of  the 
crucifix,  were  proofs,  not  that  he  was  the  Devil,  but  a 
Catholic  ;  upon  which  I  was  interrupted  with  a  sneer,  and 
an  exclamation  of — "  Where  is  the  mighty  difference  ?" 

He  gave  great  offence  at  the  hi>use  of  a  Fisherman  who 
lived  near  him,  and  strongly  confirmed  the  prejudices  ex- 
isting against  him,  by  tearing  down  a  horse-shoe  which 
was  nailed  at  the  door  as  a  protection  against  witchcraft, 
and  calling  the  inhabitants  fools  and  idiots  for  their  pains. 
Seeing,  however,  the  consternation  which  he  had  created, 
he  laughed  heartily,  and  threw  them  a  guinea  to  make 
amends.  The  good  folks  were  determined  not  to  derive 
any  pecuniary  advantages  from  the  Devil's  gold,  but  gave 
it  to  their  last-born,  an  infant  in  arms,  as  a  plaything. 


276  MISCELLANEOUS 

The  child  was  delighted  with  the  glittering  bauble ;  but 
having  one  day  got  it  down  its  throat,  there  it  stuck,  and 
instant  suffocation  ensued.  The  weeping  and  wailing  of 
the  family  on  this  occasion  were  mingled  with  execrations 
on  the  author  of  the  calamity,  for  such  they  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  term  the  old  gentleman,  who  had  evidently  thrown 
to  them  this  infernal  coin  for  the  purpose  of  depriving 
them  of  their  chief  earthly  comfort.  They  were  not  long 
In  proceeding  to  the  nearest  Magistrate,  and  begging  him 
to  issue  his  warrant  to  apprehend  the  stranger  for  murder. 
To  this,  however,  his  worship  demurred ;  and  the  good 
folks  then  changed  their  battery,  and  begged  to  ask,  as 
the  guinea  was,  of  course,  a  counterfeit,  whether  they 
could  not  hang  the  Devil  for  coining  ?  To  this  his  wor- 
ship replied,  that  though  coining  is  an  offence  amounting 
to  high- treason,  yet  the  Devil,  not  being  a  natural  born 
subject  of  his  Majesty,  owed  him  no  allegiance,  and  there- 
fore could  not  be  guilty  of  the  crime  in  question.  The 
poor  people  departed,  thinking  it  all  very  odd,  and  that  the 
Devil  and  the  'Squire  must  be  in  collusion ;  in  which  opi- 
nion they  were  confirmed  by  a  tallow-chandler,  who  was 
the  chief  tradesman  of  the  town,  as  well  as  a  violent 
Radical,  and  who  advised  them  to  petition  the  House  of 
Commons  without  delay. 

I  will  explain  to  my  readers  the  secret  of  the  tallow- 
chandler's  enmity.  The  old  gentleman  had  of  a  sudden 
ceased  to  buy  candles  ;  and  had  illuminated  his  house,  in- 
side and  out,  in  a  strange  and  mysterious  manner,  by 
some  means,  which,  from  the  brimstone-like  smell  occa- 
sionally perceived,  were  plainly  of  infernal  origin.  For 
several  weeks  previously,  he  had  been  employing  labourers 
from  a  distant  town, — for  he  did  not  engage  the  honest 
man,  whose  pick-axe  was  the  only  one  ever  used  by  the 
good  people  of  G., — in  digging  trenches,  and  laying  down 
pipes,  round  his  house.  The  townsfolk  gazed  on  in 
wonder  and  terror,  but  at  a  careful  distance  ;  and,  although 
they  had  a  longing  desire  to  understand  the  meaning  of  all 
this,  cautiously  avoided  any  intercourse  with  the  only 
persons  who  could  give  them  the  least  information — the 
labourers  who  p'-rformed  the  work.  At  length,  one  night, 
without  any  obvious  cause,  the  lamp  before  the  old  gen- 
tleman's door,  that  in  his  hall,  anrl  another  in  hifi  sitting- 


FROSE    AND    POETRY.  277  . 

room,  were  seen  to  spring  into  li?;ht  as  if"  by  magic.  They 
were  also  observed  to  go  out  in  the  same  way;  and  there- 
upon a  smell,  which  could  not  be  of  this  world,  proceeded 
from  them.  One  day,  too,  a  dreadful  explosion  took  place 
at  the  house,  and  a  part  of  the  garden  wall  was  thrown 
down  ;  all  of  which  were  plain  proofs  thai  it  could  be  no 
one  hut  the  Devil  who  inhabited  there.  The  good  folks 
of  G.  had  never  heard  of  ga^,  6r  its  properties,  and  I  was 
thought  to  be  no  better  than  I  should  be,  for  endeavouring 
to  explain  all  these  phenomena  by  natural  causes. 

There  was  one  more  fact  which  proved,  if  proof  were 
wanting,  the  accusation  of  the  towns-people.     He  was  a 
great  correspondent,  and  put  more  letters  into  the  Post- 
oflSce  than  all  the  rest  of  the  inhabitants  of  G.  together. 
These  were  generally  directed  to  Berlin,  a  town  which, 
after  much  inquiry,  was  ascertained  to  lie  in  a  remote  part 
of  Devonshire,  and  to  be  inhabhed  by  a  horridly  dissolute 
and  profane  set  of  people.     What  was  stranger  still,  no 
part  of  the  superscription  could  erer  be  read  but  the  word 
Berlin  :  the  rest  was  such  a  piece  of  cramp  penmanship, 
that  the  most  expert  scholar  in  G.  could  not  decipher  it. 
The  postmaster,  without  having  ever  heard  of  Tony  Lunip' 
kitiy  or  his  aphorisms,  knew  that  "  the  inside  of  a  letter  is 
the  cream  of  the  correspondence,"  and  ventured  one  day 
to  open  an  epistle  which  the  mysterious  one  had  just 
dropped  into  his  box.     The  contents,  however,  did  not 
much  edify  him.     Not  a  letter  was  there  which  resembled 
any  one  in  the  English  alphabet ;  it  was,  therefore,  some 
devilish  and  cabalistic  writing,  invented  for  purposes  of 
evil.     My  opinion  being  asked,  I  positively  refused  to  look 
at  the  inside  ;  but  having  perused  the  superscription,  I  said 
that  it  was  adiiressed  to  some  one  in  Berlin,  which  was  a 
city  in  Germany;  and  that,  although  I  did  not  understand 
German,  I  had  no  doubt  that  the  direction  was  written  in 
the  German  character.     Being  aslced  whether  even  I, 
with  all  my  scholarship,  could  read  it .''    1  candidly  con- 
fessed that  I  could  not ;  upon  which  I  was  asked,  with  a 
sneer,  whether  I  expected  to  persuade  them  that  the  Ger- 
mans were  such  a  nation  of  fools  as  to  write  in  a  hand 
which  nobody  could  read  ;  the  good  folks  were  also  firmly 
persuaded  that,  whatever  1  might  say,  I  was  in  my  con- 
science of  the  same  opinion  with  them,  and  my  refusal  to 


278  MISCELLANEOUS 

look  at  the  inside  of  (he  letter,  was  set  down  as  a  plain 
proof  that  I  was  afraid  of  receiving  some  nnysterious  injury 
if  I  did. 

My  own  opinions  were  so  much  oppost  d  to  those  of  my 
neighbours,  that  I  felt  rather  a  desire  to  he  acquainted 
with  the  stranger,  whose  manners  appeared  to  he  open 
and  good-humoured,  although  testy  ;md  eccentric.  My 
naturally  shy  disposition  pr^^vented  me,  however,  tiom 
accomplishing  my  wish  ;  and,  besides  this,  I  found  that 
my  own  affairs  were  enough  to  occupy  me  during  the  short 
time  that  I  remained  at  G.  1  learned  that  the  person  who 
had  created  so  much  consternation  had  arrived  at  that 
town  about  four  months  before,  and  that  the  house  had 
been  previously  engaged  for  him.  Who,  or  what  he  was, 
or  why  he  came  thither,  no  one  who  tried  could  ascertain. 
Whether  I  could  have  attained  this  wonderful  height  in 
knowledge,  I  do  not  know  ;  for,  having  something  else  to 
do,  I  never  made  the  attempt.  At  length  the  old  gentle- 
man and  his  two  servants,  an  elderly  female,  and  a  stout 
active  man  who  talked  a  gibberish,  so  they  called  it  at  G,, 
which  no  one  could  understand,  were  one  day  seen  very 
busily  employed  in  packing  up.  A  queer-looking,  broad- 
bottomed  vessel,  from  which  a  boat  was  lowered,  appeared 
off  the  town.  The  three  strangers  sallied  out  with  their 
boxes,  and  after  depositing  a  packet  at  the  post-office, 
addressed  to  the  former  proprietor  of  the  house,  which 
was  supposed  to  contain  the  keys,  and  was  ordered  to  be 
kept  until  the  arrival  of  the  person  to  whom  it  was 
addressed,  they  got  into  the  boat,  rowed  to  the  ship,  and 
were  never  seen,  or  heard  of,  more. 

During  the  short  time  afterward  that  I  continued  at  G. 
I  was  subject  to  repeated  lectures  for  n)y  obstinate  infi- 
delity as  to  the  old  gentleman's  diabolisms  ;  and  whatever 
argument  I  advanced  in  support  of  my  own  opinion,  it  was 
sure  to  be  met  by  the  unanswerable  question,  "  If  he  was 
not  the  Devil,  who  the  devil  was  be  ?" 

Many  years  rolled  over  my  head,  and  the  memory  of 
the  mysterious  inhabitant  of  G.  had  entirely  vanished  from 
it,  when  circumstances,  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  detail, 
obliged  me  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  north  of  Germany.  At 
the  close  of  a  fine  autumnal  day  in  1824,  I  found  myself 
entering  the  splendid  city  of  Berlin.     Both  my  good  steed 


PKOSE    ANU    POETRY.  2f9* 

and  1  were  so  much  fatigued  that  a  speedy  resting  was? 
very  desirable  for  us ;  but  it  was  long  before  I  could  choose 
an  hotel  out  of  the  immense  numbers  which  presented 
themselves  to  my  view.  Some  were  far  too  magnificent 
for  my  humble  means,  and  the  mere  sight  of  their  splen- 
dour appeared  to  melt  away  the  guilders  in  my  pocket. 
Some,  on  the  other  hand,  were  such  as  no  "man  of  wit 
and  fashion  about  town"  would  think  of  putting  his  head 
into.  At  length  I  thought  that  1  had  discovered  one 
which  looked  like  the  happy  medium,  and  the  whimsicality 
of  its  sign  determined  me  to  put  up  there.  The  sign  was 
Der  Teufbl;  and  since  my  departure  from  G.  I  had 
acquired  a  sufficient  master)  of  the  German  language  to 
know  what  those  two  words  signified  in  English.  I 
entered,  and,  after  taking  all  due  precautions  for  the 
accommodation  and  sustenance  of  the  respectable  quad- 
ruped who  had  borne  me  upon  his  back  for  nearly  half  the 
day,  I  began  to  think  of  satisfying  that  appetite  which  dis- 
appointment, anxiety,  and  fatigue,  had  not  been  able 
entirely  to  destroy.  My  worthy  host,  who  did  not  seem 
to  bear  any  resemblance  to  his  sign,  unless  1  could  have 
the  ingiatitude  to  ascribe  his  magical  celerity  and  marvel- 
lous good  fare  to  the  auspices  of  his  patron  saint,  quickly- 
covered  my  tabK'  with  a  profusion  of  tempting  viands  : 
while  a  flask  of  sparkling  Hochheim  towered  proudly,  like 
a  presiding  deity,  above  the  whole.  My  good  humour, 
however,  was  a  little  clouded  when  I  saw  plates,  knives, 
and  forks,  laid  for  two  instead  of  one.  "  What  means 
thi^  ?"  said  I  to  the  landlord. 

"Mein  Herr,"  answered  he,  submissively,  "a  gentl's- 
man  who  has  just  arrived  will  have  the  honour  of  dining 
with  you." 

'•  But  I  mean  to  dine  alone,"  I  replied  angrily;  not  that 
I  doubted  the  sufficiency  of  the  meal,  but  I  did  not  choose 
to  be  intiuded  upon  by  strangers. 

"  Pardon  n)e,  mein  llerr,"  said  the  landlord  with  una- 
bashed impudence,  "  1  have  told  Herr  von  Schwartzmann 
that  dinner  is  ready.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  his  company, 
lie  is  a  gentleman  of  good  fortune  and  family,  and  is  more- 
over  " 

<'  I  care  not  who  he  is,"  exclaimed  I  ;  "  but  in  order  to 
riit  thy  prating  short,  and   to  get  my  dinner,  if  I  mus*? 


2bU  iVlISCELLA^EOUS 

needs  submit,  let  him  come  in  at  once,  even  if  he  be  the 
Devil  himself !" 

I  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words  when  I  started  as  if 
I  had  really  seen  the  person  whom  I  mentioned,  for  the 
room-door  opened,  and  in  walked  the  old  gentleman  who 
had  caused  so  much  wonder  and  terror  at  G.  The  super- 
stitions of  the  people  of  that  town,  the  sign  of  the  inn 
where  1  now  was,  the  old  fellow's  name,  Schwartzmann, 
Avhich  being  interpreted  in  English,  meaneth  black  man, 
my  own  petulant  exclamatiou,  and  the  sudden  apparition 
of  this  unaccountable  person,  were  circumstances  that 
crowded  my  brain  at  once,  and  for  an  instant  I  almost  fan- 
cied myself  in  the  presence  of  the  foul  fiend.  "  You  seem 
surprised,"  at  length  said  Herr  von  Schwartzmann,  "at  our 
unexpected  meeting  ;  and,  indeed,  you  cannot  be  more  so 
than  I  am.  I  believe  it  was  in  England  that  we  met 
before.". 

"  Even  so,  mein  Herr,"  I  answered,  encouraged  by 
the  earthly  tone  of  his  voice,  and  fancying  that  the 
good-humoured  smile  which  mantled  over  his  face  must 
be  of  this  world,  and  at  any  rate  could  be  of  no  worse 
origin  ;  "  even  so,  mein  Herr  ;  and  I  have  often  regretted 
that,  placed  as  we  were  among  a  horde  of  barbarous 
peasantry,  an  opportunity  never  occurred  for  our  better 
acquaintance." 

"  It  is  at  length  arrived,"  he  said,  filling  two  glasses  of 
Hochheim ;  "  let  us  drink  to  our  better  and  our  long 
acquaintance." 

I  pledged  the  old  gentleman's  toast  with  great  alacrityj 
and  it  was  not  until  the  passage  of  the  wine  down  my 
throat  had  sealed  me  to  it  irrevocably,  that  I  reflected 
upon  the  sentiment  to  which  I  had  drunk  with  so  much 
cordiality  ;  and  was  again  shaken  with  doubts  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  person  with  whom  I  had  avowed  my  wish  to 
be  long  and  intimately  acquainted. 

I  looked  upon  his  feet,  "  but  that's  a  fable,"  and  then  I 
looked  upon  the  viands  on  which  he  was  feeding  lustily, 
while  I,  although  he  had  the  courtesy  to  load  my  plate 
with  the  best  of  every  thing,  was  wasting  the  golden  mo- 
ments in  idle  alarms  and  superstitious  absurdity.  The 
more  reasonable  man  was  roused  within  me,  and  I  fell  to 


PItOSE    ANU    POETRY.  281 

the  work  of"  mastication  with  a  zeal  and  tervour  that  would 
have  done  honour  to  Dr.  Kitchener  himself. 

"  Well,  my  fiiend,"  said  my  companion,  after  we  had 
pretty  well  satisfied  the  cravings  of  our  stomachs,  our 
landlord  has  this  day  treated  us  nobly,  and  methiuks  we 
have  not  been  backward  in  doing  honour  to  his  excellent 
cheer.  He  is  an  honest  fellow,  who  well  deserves  to  pros- 
per, and  we  will  therefore,  if  you  please,  drink  success  to 
Der  Teufel  /" 

I  had  raised  my  glass  to  my  lips  when  I  found  that  the 
old  gentleman  meant  to  propose  a  toast,  but  1  set  it  down 
again  right  hastily,  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  very  equivocal 
sentiment  to  which  he  wanted  me  to  pledge  myself.  The 
fiend,  I  thought,  is  weaving  his  web  around  me,  and  wishes 
me  to  drink  to  my  own  perdition.  A  cold  sweat  came 
over  me  ;  a  film  covered  my  eyes  ;  and  I  thought  that  I 
perceived  the  old  man  looking  askew  at  me,  while  his  lip 
was  curled  with  a  malignant  smile. 

"  You  are  not  well,"  he  said,  taking  my  hand.  I  shrank 
from  his  grasp  at  first,  but  to  my  surprise  it  was  as  cool 
and  healthy  as  the  touch  of  humanity  could  possibly  be. 
*'  Let  us  retire  to  our  worthy  Host's  garden  ;  the  heat  of 
this  room  overpowers  you  ;  and  we  can  finish  our  wine 
coolly  and  pleasantly  in  the  arbour." 

He  did  not  wait  for  my  consent,  but  led  me  out ;  and 
our  bottle  and  glasses  wore  very  quickly  arranged  upon  a 
table  in  a  leafy  arbour,  where  we  were  sheltered  from  the 
sun,  and  enjoyed  the  refreshing  fragrance  of  the  evening 
breeze  as  it  gently  stirred  the  leaves  about  us. 

"  They  were  odd  people,"  said  my  friend,  "  those 
inhabitants  of  G.  ;  they  stared  at  me,  they  shrank  from 
me,  as  if  I  had  been  the  Devil  himself." 

"  And  in  truth,  mein  Herr,"  1  replied,  "they  took 
you  to  be  no  less  a  personage  than  he  whom  you  have 
just  named." 

The  old  gentleman  laughed  long  and  heartily  at  my 
information.  "  I  thought  as  much,"  he  said,  "  it  is  an 
honour  which  has  been  ascribed  to  me  from  the  hour  of 
my  birth,  and  in  more  countries  than  one." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  "  you  speak  as  if  there  were  some- 
thing in  your  history  to  which  a  stranger  might  listen 

N  n 


2^2  JVIlScELLANIiOiiS 

with  interest.     May  I  crave  the  favour  of  you  to  be  a 
little  more  communicative  1" 

«  With  all  my  heart  I"  he  replied  :  "  but  in  truth  you 
will  not  find  much  to  interest  you  in  my  story.  A  little 
mirth  and  a  good  deal  of  sorrow  make  up  the  history  of 
most  men's  lives,  and  mine  is  not  an  exception  to  the  ge- 
neral rule.  I  was  born  some  threescore  years  ago,  and 
was  the  son  and  heir  of  the  Baron  von  Schwartzmann, 
whose  Castle  is  a  few  miles  to  the  southward  of  this 
city  ;  and  I  am  now,  by  your  leave,  mein  Ilerr,  the 
Baron  himself"  I  made  him  a  lower  bow  than  I  had 
ever  yet  greeted  him  with.  "  My  Mother  had  brought 
into  the  world,  about  two  years  previously,  a  daughter  of 
such  extraordinary  beauty,  that  it  was  confidently  ex- 
pected that  the  next  child  would  be  similarly  endowed  ; 
but  I  was  no  sooner  presented  to  my  Father  than  he  was 
so  startled  at  my  surprising  ugliness,  that  he  retreated 
several  paces,  and  involuntarily  exclaimed,  '  The  Devil  !' 
This  was  a  Christian  name  which  stuck  to  me  ever  after- 
ward, and  which,  as  you  can  bear  witness,  followed  me 
even  into  a  foreign  country. 

"  My  Godfather  and  Godmother,  however,  treated  nie 
much  more  courteously  than  my  own  natural  parent,  and 
bestowed  upon  me,  at  the  baptismal  font,  the  high-sound- 
ing appellation  of  Leopold.  Nothing  worth  describing 
occurred  during  the  years  of  my  infancy.  I  cried,  and 
laughed,  and  pouted,  and  sucked,  and  was  kissed,  and 
scolded,  and  treated,  and  whipped,  as  often,  and  with  the 
same  alternations,, as  children  in  general;  only  I  grew 
Tiglier,  and  justified  the  paternal  benediction  more  and 
more  every  day.  In  due  time  I  was  sent  to  a  grammar- 
school.  As  1  had  at  home  been  accustomed  to  indepen- 
dence and  the  exercise  of  my  self-will,  1  soon  became 
the  most  troublesome  fellow  there  ;  and  yet,  I  may  now 
say  it  without  the  imputation  of  vanity,  1  contrived,  by 
some  means  or  other,  to  gain  the  hearts  of  all,  whether 
tutors  or  pupils.  For  solving  a  theme,  or  robbing  an 
orchard  ;  writing  nonsense  verses,  or  frightening  a  whole 
neighbourhood  ;  translating  Homer  into  German  verse, 
or  beating  a  Watchman  until  his  flesh  was  one  general 
bruise,  who  could  compete  with  Leopold  von  Schwartz- 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  283 

mann  'I  One  day  I  was  publicly  reprimanded  and  pu- 
nished for  some  monstrous  outrage,  and  the  next  re- 
warded with  all  the  honours  of  the  School  for  my  profi- 
ciency in  the  Classics.  In  short,  it  was  generally  agreed 
that  there  was  not  such  another  clever,  pleasant,  good- 
tempered,  good-for-nothing  fellow  in  the  School.  '  Cer- 
tainly,' the  wise  people  would  say,  '  the  Devil  is  in  him  /' 

"  And  now,"  added  the  old  man,  smiling,  but  smihng,  I 
thought,  somewhat  solemnly  and  sadly,  "  I  must  let  you 
into  the  secret  of  one  of  my  weaknesses.  I  have  ever 
had  the  most  implicit  belief  in  the  science  of  Astrology. 
You  stare  at  me  incredulously,  and  I  can  excuse  your 
incredulity.  You,  born  in  England  perhaps  some  forty 
years  ago,  can  have  but  few  superstitions  in  common 
Avith  one  whose  birthplace  is  Germany,  and  whose  natal 
Star  first  shone  upon  him  above  threescore  years  before 
the  time  at  which  he  is  speaking.  Observe  that  Comet," 
said  he,  pointing  towards  the  west ;  "  it  is  a  very  brilUant 
one,  and  this  is  the  last  night  that  it  will  be  visible." 

"  It  is  the  beautiful  Comet,"  I  said,  "  which  has  shone 
upon  us  for  the  last  six  months,  and  which  first  appeared, 
I  think,  in  the  belt  of  Orion." 

"  True,  true,"  replied  the  Baron ;  "  it  is  the  Comet 
which,  according  to  the  calculations  of  Astronomers, 
visits  the  eyes  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  world  once  in 
twenty  years,  and  I  can  confirm  the  accuracy  of  their 
calculations' as  far  as  relates  to  three  of  its  visits.  You 
will  smile,  and  think  that  the  eccentricity  of  my  conduct 
and  character  is  sufficiently  accounted  for,  when  I  tell 
you  that  that  Comet  is  my  natal  planet.  On  the  very 
day  and  instant  that  it  became  visible,  sixty  years  and  six 
months  ago,  did  I  first  open  my  eyes  in  my  Father's  cas- 
tle. There  is,  however,  a  tradition  connected  with  this 
Comet,  which  has  sometimes  made  rnc  uneasy.  It  runs 
thus  : — 

'  The  Comet  that's  bom  in  the  belt  of  Orion, 
Whose  Cradle  it  gilds,  gilds  the  place  they  shall  die  on.' 

However,  this  is  its  third  return  that  I  have  seen,  and 
being  now  as  hale  and  hearty  as  ever  I  was,  the  tradition, 
if  it  means  any  thing  to  interest  me,  moans  that  I  shall 


2S4  MISCELLANEOUS 

live  on  to  the  good  old  age  of  fourscore.  Bat  to  return 
to  my  history.  I  was  a  fervent  believer  in  Astrology ; 
nnd  thought  that  if  I  could  meet  with  a  person,  either 
male  or  female,  who  was  born  under  the  same  Star,  to 
that  person  I  might  safely  attach  myself,  and  our  desti- 
nies must  be  indissolubly  bound  together.  1  had,  how- 
ever, never  met  with  such  a  person,  and  as  yet  I  had  never 
seen  my  natal  Star,  for  on  the  day  on  which  I  entered  the 
University  of  Halle  I  wanted  three  days  of  attaining 
my  twentieth  year.  Those  three  days  seemed  the  longest 
and  most  tedious  that  I  had  ever  passed  ;  but  at  length 
the  fateful  morning  dawned,  on  the  evening  of  which,  a 
few  minutes  before  the  hour  of  eight,  the  hour  of  my 
birth,  I  hastened  to  a  secluded  place  at  a  short  distance 
from  the  town,  and  planting  myself  there,  gazed  earnestly 
and  intently  upon  the  belt  of  Orion.  I  had  not  gazed 
long  before  a  peculiar  light  seemed  to  issue  from  it,  and 
at  length  1  saw  a  beautiful  Comet,  with  a  long  and  glit- 
tering train,  rising  in  all  its  celestial  pomp  and  majesty. 
How  shall  I  describe  my  feelings  at  that  moment  ?  I 
felt  as  it  were  new-born :  new  ideas,  new  hopes,  new 
joys,  seemed  to  rush  upon  me,  and  I  gave  vent  to  my 
emotions  in  an  exclamation  of  delight.  This  exclama- 
tion I  was  astonished  to  hear  repeated  as  audibly  and  fer- 
vently as  it  was  made,  and  turning  round,  I  beheld  a 
female  within  a  few  paces  of  me  to  my  right. 

*'  She  was  tall,  and  exquisitely  formed  :  her  dress  de- 
noted extreme  poverty  ;  and  her  eye,  which  for  a  mo- 
jTient  had  been  lighted  up  with  enthusiasm,  was  down- 
cast, and  abashed  with  a  sense  of  conscious  inferiority, 
when  it  met  mine.  Still  I  thought  that  I  had  never  be- 
held a  face  so  perfectly  beautiful.  Her  general  com- 
plexion was  exquisitely  fair,  without  approaching  to  pale- 
ness, with  a  slight  tinge  of  the  rose  on  each  cheek,  which 
I  could  not  help  thinking  that  care  and  tenderness  might 
be  able  to  deepen  to  a  much  ruddier  hue.  Her  eyes 
were  black  and  sparkling,  but  the  long  dark  lashes  which 
fell  over  them  seemed,  1  thought,  acquainted  with  tears. 
Her  hair  was  of  the  same  colour  with  her  eyes,  and  al- 
most of  the  same  brightness.  I  gazed  first  upon  her  and 
then  upon  the  newly-risen  Comet,  and  my  bosom  seemed 


PROSE    ANn    POETRl'.  285 

bursting  with  emotions  which  I  could  not  express,  or 
even  understand. 

"  '  Sweet  girl !'  I  said, -approaching  her,  and  taking  her 
hand,  *  what  can  have  induced  you  to  wander  abroad  at 
this  late  hour  ?' 

"  '  The  Comet  !'  said  she,  « the  Comet !'  pointing  to  it 
with  enthusiasm. 

"  *  It  is  indeed  a  beautiful  star,'  I  replied,  and  as  I 
gazed  I  felt  as  if  1  were  the  apostle  of  truth  for  so  say- 
ing, 'but  here,'  I  added,  pressing  my  lip  to  her  white 
forehead,  '  is  one  still  inore  beautiful,  but  alas !  more 
fragile,  and  which  ought  therefore  not  to  be  exposed  to 
danger,' 

"  *  Ay,'  she  said,  '  but  it  is  the  star  which  1  have 
been  waiting  to  gaze  upon  for  many  a  long  year  ;  it 
is  the  star  that  rules  my  destiny,  my  natal  star  !  Twenty 
3'ears  ago,  and  at  this  very  hour,  was  I  brought  into  the 
world.' 

"  Scarcely  could  I  believe  my  ears.  I  thought  that  the 
sounds  which  I  had  heard  could  not  come  from  the  beau- 
tiful lips  which  I  saw  moving,  but  that  some  lying  fiend 
had  whispered  them  in  my  ears ;  I  made  her  repeat  them 
over  and  over  again.  I  thought  of  the  desire  which  had 
so  long  haunted  me,  and  which  now  seemed  gratified  ;  I 
thought,  too,  of  the  beautiful  lines  of  Schiller  : — 

'  It  is  a  gentle  and  aflTectionate  thought, 
That  in  immeasurable  height  above  us, 
At  our  first  birth  this  wreath  of  love  was  woven 
With  sparkling  stars  for  flowers  !' 

In  short,  I  thought  and  felt  so  much  that  I  fell  at  the  fair 
girl's  feet ;  told  her  the  strange  coincidence  of  our  desti- 
nies ;  revealed  to  her  my  name  and  rank ;  and  made 
her  an  offer  of  my  hand  and  heart  without  any  further 
ceremony. 

"  'Alas,  Sir  !'  she  said,  permitting  but  not  returning  the 
caress  which  I  gave  her,  '  I  could  indeed  fancy  that  fate 
has  intended  us  to  be  indissolubly  united,  but  I  am  poor, 
friendless,  wretched  ;  my  mother  is  old  and  bed-ridden ; 
and  my  father,  I  fear,  follows  desperate  courses  to  procure 
even  the  slender  means  on  which  we  subsist.* 


286  MISCELT.ANEOUS 

"  «  But  I  have  wealth,  sweet  girl  !'  exclaimed  I,  '  sulli- 
cient  to  remove  all  these  evils;  and  here  is  an  earnest  of 
it,'  endeavouring  to  forct  my  purse  into  her  hands. 

"  '  Nay,  nay,'  she  said,  thrusting  it  back,  '  keep  your 
gold,  lest  slander  should  blacken  the  fair  fame  which  is 
Adeline's  only  dowry !' 

"  '  Sweet  Adeline  !  beautiful  Adeline  !'  said  I,  '  do  not 
let  us  part  thus.  Can  you  doubt  my  sincerity  1  Would 
you  vainly  endeavour  to  interi)ose  a  baiiicr  against  the 
decrees  of  fate  ?  Believe  that  1  love  you,  and  say  that  you 
love  me  in  return,' 

" '  It  is  the  will  of  fate,'  she  said,  sinking  in  my  arms : 
'Why  should  I  belie  what  it  has  written  in  my  heart? 
Leopold,  1  love  thee.' 

"  Thus  did  we,  who  but  half  an  hour  previously  were 
ignorant  of  each  other's  existence,  plight  our  mutual 
vows;  but  each  recognised  a  being  long  sought  and  looked 
for,  and  each  yielded  to  the  overruling  influence  of  the 
planet  which  was  the  common  governor  of  our  destiny.  I 
was  anxious  to  celebrate  our  nuptials  immediately,  but 
Adeline  put  a  decided  negative  upon  it. 

"  '  What,'  she  said,  '  were  jou  born  under  yon  star, 
and  know  not  the  dark  saying  which  is  attached  to  it? — 

'  The  love  that  is  born  at  the  Comet's  birth. 
Treat  it  not  like  a  thine  of  earth  ; 
Breathe  it  to  none  but  the  loved-one's  ear. 
Lest  fate  should  remove  what  hope  deeir.is  so  near  ; 
Seal  it  not  till  the  hour  and  the  day 
When  that  star  from  the  heavens  shall  pass  away.' 

"  I  instantly  recollected  the  saying,  and  acquiesced  in 
the  wisdom  of  not  acting  adversely  to  what  I  believed 
to  be  the  will  of  destiny.  '  It  will  then  be  six  long 
months,  sweet  Adeline  !'  said  I,  <ere  our  happiness  can 
be  sealed;  but  I  must  see  thee  daily,  I  cannot  else  exist.' 

"  '  Call  upon  me  at  yonder  white  cottage,'  she  answered, 
'at  about  this  hour.  My  father  is  then  out;  indeed  he 
has  been  out  for  some  weeks  now,  but  he  is  never  at  home 
at  that  hour ;  and  my  mother  will  have  retired  to  rest. 
Farewell,  Leopold  von  Schwartzmann.' 


FliUSE    AND    rOETRY.  .  2&7 

*' '  Farewell  dearest  Adeline  !  tell  me  no  more  of  thy 
name.  I  seek  not,  I  wish  not,  to  know  it ;  tell  it  not  to 
me  until  the  hour  when  thou  art  about  to  exchange  it  for 
Schwartzmann.' 

"  Oui-  parting  was  marked,  as  the  partings  of  lovers 
usually  are,  with  sigiis,  and  tears,  and  embraces,  and  pro- 
testations of  eternal  fidelity,  and  promises  of  speedily  see- 
ing each  other  again. 

"  The  love  thus  suddenly  lighted  up  within  our  bosoms, 
I  did  not  suffer  to  die  away,  or  to  be  extinguished.  Every 
evening  at  the  hour  of  nine,  I  was  at  the  fair  one's  Cottage 
door,  and  ever  foui;d  her  ready  to  receive  me ;  nay,  at 
length  I  used  to  find  the  latchet  left  unfastened  for  me, 
and  I  stole  up  stairs  to  her  chamber  unquestioned.  I  soon 
discovered  that  her  mind  and  manners  were  at  least  equal 
to  her  beauty  ;  but  the  utmost  penury  and  privation  were 
but  too  visible  around  her.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  offered 
her  the  assistance  of  my  {)urse,  and  urged  her  to  accept 
by  anticipation  that  which  must  very  shortly  be  hers  by 
right.  The  high-minded  girl  positively  refused  to  avail 
herself  of  this  offer,  and  then  1  could  not  help,  at  all  ha- 
zards, endeavouring  to  persuade  her  to  consent  to  our  im- 
mediate union,  as  that  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  only  means 
of  rescuing  her  from  the  distressing  state  of  poverty  in 
which  I  found  her. 

" '  Say  no  m(jre,  Leopold,'  she  said,  one  night,  when  I 
had  been  urging  this  upon  her  more  strenuously  than  ever, 
*  say  no  more,  lest  1  should  be  weak  enough  to  consent, 
and  so  draw  down  upon  our  heads  the  bolts  of  destiny. 
And,  Leopold,  I  find  thy  presence  dangerous  to  me ;  let 
me,  therefore,  I  pray  thee,  see  thee  no  more  until  the  hour 
•which  is  to  make  us  one.  I  dread  thy  entreating  eyes,  thy 
persuading  tongue  :  one  short  month  of  separation,  and 
then  a  whole  life  of  constant  union.  Say  that  it  shall  be 
so,  for  my  sake.' 

"  '  It  shall  be  so,  it  shall,  for  thy  sake  !'  I  said.  For, 
bitter  as  was  the  trial  to  which  she  put  me,  the  tone  and 
manner  in  which  she  implored  my  acquiescence  were  irre- 
sistible. 

"'  Then  farewell  !'  she  said,  '  come  not  near  me  until 
that  day.  Should  you  attempt  to  see  me  earlier,  I  have 
a  fearful  foreboding  that  something  evil  will  befall  us.' 


,iii6  .MISCELLANEOUS 

"  TIlis  was  the  most  sorrowful  parting  which  I  had  yet 
experienced;  but  1  bore  it  as  manfully  as  I  could.  Three, 
four,  five,  days,  did  I  perform  my  promise,  and  never  ven- 
tured near  the  residence  of  Adefine.  I  shut  myself  up  in 
my  own  chamber,  where  I  saw  no  one  but  the  domestic 
who  brought  my  meals,  I  could  not  support  this  life  any 
longer,  and  at  last  I  determined  to  pay  a  visit  to  Adeline. 
'"  Whither  would  you  go,  mein  Ilerr?"  said  the  sen- 
tinel at  the  city  gate,  through  which  I  had  to  pass. 

"  « I  have  business  of  importance  about  a  mile  from  the 
city,'  I  answered ;  '  pray  do  not  detain  me.' 

"  *  Nay,  mein  Herr,'  replied  the  sentinel,  « I  have  no 
authority  to  detain  you  ;  but  if  you  will  take  the  advice 
of  a  friend,  you  will  not  leave  the  city  to-night.  Know 
you  not  that  the  noted  bandit  Brandt  is  suspected  to  be  in 
the  neighbourhood  this  evening  ;  that  the  Council  have 
set  a  price  upon  his  head  ;  and  that  the  city  bands  are 
now  engaged  in  pursuit  of  him  !' 

"  '  Be  it  so,'  I  said  ;  '  a  man  who  is  skulking  about  to 
avoid  the  city  band  is  not,  methinks,  an  enemy  which  I 
need  greatly  fear  encountering.' 

"  The  sentinel  shook  his  head,  but  allowed  me  to  pass 
without  further  question.  Love  lent  wings  to  my  feet, 
and  already  was  Adeline's  white  cottage  in  sight,  when  a 
violent  blow  on  the  back  of  my  head  with  the  butt-end 
of  a  pistol,  stretched  me  on  the  ground,  and  a  man,  »vhose 
knee  was  immediately  on  my  chest,  pointed  the  muzzle  at 
my  head. 

"  Deliver  your  money,'  he  said,  '  or  you  have  not  a 
moment  to  live.' 

"  '  Ruffian,'  I  said,  *  let  me  go  ;  1  am  a  student  at  Halle, 
son  of  the  Baron  von  Schwartzmann,  Thou  durst  not 
for  thy  head  attempt  my  lile." 

"  '  That  we  shall  soon  see,'  said  the  villain  coolly  ;  and 
my  days  had  then  certainly  been  numbered,  had  not  three 
men,  springing  from  a  neighbouring  thicket,  suddenly 
seized  the  robber,  disarmed  him,  and  then  proceeded  very 
quietly  to  bind  his  hands  behind  him. 

"  *  Have  we  caught  you  at  last,  mein  Herr  Brandt  ?' 
said  one  of  my  deliverers.  '  We  have  been  a  long  time 
looking  ©ut  for  you.  Now  we  meet  to  part  only  once, 
and  for  ever.' 


PROSE    AND    POETRl'.  2S9 

"  The  Robber  eyed  them  sullenly,  but  did  not  deign  a 
reply,  as  they  marched  him  between  them  towards  the 
town.  We  soon  entered  the  gate,  through  which  1  had 
already  passed,  and  were  conducted  before  the  Com- 
mander of  the  garrison,  who,  as  Brandt  had  been  placed 
by  proclamation  under  military  law,  was  the  Judge  ap- 
pointed to  decide  upon  his  case. 

"My  evidence  was  given  in  a  very  few  words,  and, 
corroborated  as  it  was  by  that  of  the  policemen,  was,  I 
perceived,  fatal  to  Brandt.  I  could  not  help,  however, 
entreating  for  mercy  to  the  wretched  criminal. 

"  '  Nay,  Sir,"  said  the  officer,  'your  entreaty  is  vain. 
Even  without  this  last  atrocious  case  to  fix  his  doom,  we 
needed  only  evidence  to  identify  him  as  Brandt,  to  have 
cost  him  all  his  Uves,  were  they  numerous  as  the  hairs 
upon  his  head.  Away  with  him,  and  hang  him  instantly 
upon  the  ramparts.' 

"  '  I  thank  thee,  Colonel,'  said  the  Bandit,  '  for  my 
death.  It  is  better  to  die  than  to  witness  such  sights  as  have 
torn  my  heart  daily.  It  was  only  to  save  a  wretched  wife 
and  daughter  from  starvation,  that  I  resorted  to  this  trade. 
But,  fare  thee  well  ?     Brandt  knows  how  to  die.' 

"  The  unhappy  man  was  instantly  removed  ;  and  finding 
that  there  was  no  further  occasion  for  my  attendance,  I 
rushed  into  the  streets  in  a  state  that  bordered  upon 
frenzy.  The  idea  that  I  had,  however  innocently,  been 
the  occasion  of  the  death  of  a  man,  shook  every  fibre  in 
my  frame  ;  and  while  I  was  suffering  under  the  influence 
of  these  feelings,  the  sullen  roll  of  the  death-drums  an- 
nounced that  Brandt  had  ceased  to  live. 

"  I  went  home  and  hurried  to  bed,  but  not  to  rest. 
The  violence  of  the  blow  which  I  had  received  from  the 
Bandit,  as  well  as  the  mental  agony  which  I  had  under- 
gone, threw  me  into  a  dangerous  fever.  For  ten  days  I 
was  in  a  state  of  delirium,  raving  incoherently,  and 
unconscious  of  every  thing  around  me.  At  length  I 
arrived  at  the  crisis  of  my  disorder,  which  proved  favoura- 
ble. The  fever  left  my  brain,  and  the  glassy  glaze  of  my 
eye  was  exchanged  for  its  usual  look  of  intelligence  and 
meaning.  I  turned  round  my  head  in  my  bed,  and  looked 
towards  the  window  of  my  chamber.  It  was  evening  ; 
the  arch  of  heaven  was  of  one  deep  azure,  and  the  T'omet 

On 


8<K>  MISCELLANEOUS 

was  shining  in  all  its  brightness.  Its  situation  in  the 
Heavens,  which  was  materially  different  from  that  which 
it  occupied  when  I  was  last  conscious  of  seeing  it,  recalled 
and  fixed  my  wandering  recollections  of  all  that  was 
connected  with  it.  1  rang  the  bell  violently,  and  was 
speedily  attended  by  my  valet,  who  had  watched  over  me 
durmg  my  illuess.  I  interrupted  the  expressions  of  delight 
which  the  sight  of  my  convalescent  state  drew  from  him, 
by  eagerly  inquiring  what  was  the  day  of  the  month  and 
the  hour. 

"  '  It  is  the  eighth  day  of  August,  Sir  ;  and  the  cathe- 
dral clock  has  just  chimed  seven.' 

"  '  Heavens  1'  1  exclaimed,  starting  from  my  bed,  '  had 
this  cursed  fever  detained  me  one  hour  longer,  the  destined 
moment  would  have  passed  away.  Assist  me  to  dress, 
good  Ferdinand,  I  must  away  instantly.' 

"  'Sir,'  said  the  man,  alarmed,  'the  Doctor  would  chide.- 

"  '  Care  not  for  his  chiding,'  said  I  ;  'I  will  secure 
thee ;  but  an  affair  of  life  and  death  is  not  more  urgent  thai^ 
that  on  which  I  am  about  to  go.' 

"  '  The  good  Curate,  von  Wilden,  is  below,'  said  Fer- 
dinand, '  and  told  me  that  he  must  see  you  ;  but  I  dared 
not  disturb  you.  He  was  just  going  away  when  you  rang 
the  bell,  and  is  now  waiting  to  know  the  result.' 

"  I  immediately  remembered  that  I  had  appointed  the 
Curate  to  meet  me  at  that  hour,  for  the  purpose  of  pro- 
ceeding to  Adeline's  cottage  and  tying  the  nuptial  knot 
between  us.  I  had  told  him  the  nature  of  the  duty  which 
I  wished  him  to  perform,  without,  however,  disclosing  so 
much  as  to  break  through  the  caution  contained  in  the 
traditionary  verses.  I  lost  no  tim.e  in  joining  him  in  the 
hall,  and  proceeded  to  leave  the  house,  accompanied  by 
him,  with  as  much  celerity  as  possible,  lest  the  interven- 
tion of  my  medical  attendant,  or  some  other  person,  should 
throw  difficulty  in  the  way. 

"  We  soon  reached  the  open  fields.  It  was  a  beautiful 
star-light  evening.  The  Comet  was  nearly  upon  the  verge 
of  the  horizon,  and  I  was  fearful  of  its  disappearing 
before  the  ceremony  of  my  nuptials  could  be  accom- 
plished. We  therefore  proceeded  rapidly  on  our  walk. 
An  involuntary  shudder  came  over  me  as  I  passed  by  the 
scene  of  my  encounter  with  the  Bandit ;  but  just  then  the 
white  cottage  peeped  out  from  among  the  woods  which 


I'ROSE    AND    POETRY.  /  291 

had  concealed  it,  and  my  heart  felt  reassured  by  the  near 
prospect  of  unbounded  happiness.  We  approached  the 
door  :  it  was  on  the  latch,  wliich  I  gently  raised,  and  then 
proceeded,  as  usual,  up  the  stairs,  I'ollowed  by  the  Curate. 
I  thought  I  heard  a  low  moaning  sound  as  we  approached 
the  ciiamber-door  ;  but  it  was  ajar,  and  we  entered.  An 
old  woman,  who  seemed  scarcely  able  to  crawl  about, 
was  at  the  bed-side  with  a  phial  in  her  hand  ;  and  stretched 
upon  the  couch,  with  a  face  on  which  the  finger  of  death 
seemed  visibly  impressed,  lay  the  wasted  form  of  Adeline. 
*  Just  H«^aven  !'  I  exclaimed,  <  what  new  misery  is  there 
in  store  for  me  ? 

"  The  sound  of  my  voice  roused  Adeline  from  her 
death-lilce  stupor.  She  raised  her  eyes,  but  closed  them 
again  suddenly  on  seeing  me,  exclaiming,  '  'Tis  he,'  'tis 
he  ! — the  fiend  ! — save  me,  save  me  !'  The  bitterness  of 
death  seemed  to  invade  my  heart  when  I  heard  this  unac- 
countable exclamation.  I  gasped  for  breath,  and  cold 
drops  of  agony  rolled  from  my  tem{)les.  I  ventured  to 
approach  the  bed.  1  tmk  her  burning  hand  within  my 
own,  and  pressed  it  to  my  heart.  Siie  again  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  me  solemnly,  and  said,  '  Know  you  whom  3  ou 
embrace  1  Miserable  man,  has  not  the  universal  rumour 
reach<^d  thine  ear  V 

"  '  Dearest  Adeline,'  I  said,  '  for  the  last  ten  days  I  have 
been  stretched  upon  the  bed  of  delirium  and  insensibility. 
Rumour,  however  trumpet-tongued  to  other  ears,  has 
been  dumb  to  mine.' 

"  '  You  call  me  Adeline,'  she  said,  *  is  that  all  V 

"  '  The  hour,'  I  answered,  '  is  at  length  arrived,  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  less  melancholy  one,  when  thou 
ivert  to  tell  me  that  other  name,  ere  thou  exchangedst  it 
for  ever.' 

"  '  Know  then,'  said  she,  rising  up  in  the  bed  with  an 
unusual  ellort.  in  whifh  all  her  remaining  strength  seemed 
to  be  concentrated,  '  that  my  name  is  Adeline  Biandt !'     .^ 

"  For  an  instant  shf  fixed  her  dark  eyes  upon  tny  face, 
which  grew  cold  and  \>i\\\\'\  as  her  own  ;  then  the  film  of 
death  came  over  them,  and  her  head  sank  back  upon  her 
pillow,  from  which  it  never  rose  again. 

"  Weak,  and  sickly,  and  stricken,  as  it  were,  with  a 
thunderbolt,  I  know  not  how  I  preserved  my  recollection 
and  reason  at  that  moment.     I  rcmeniber,  however,  look- 


"■192  MISCEI.r-ANEOUS 

iiig  Iroin  the  cliamber  window,  and  seeing-  the  Comet 
shining  brightly,  although  just  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon; 
I  turned  to  the  dead  face  of  Adeline,  and  thought  of  those 
ill-omened  lines,— 

'  The  Comet  that 's  born  in  the  belt  of  Orion, 
Whose  cradle  it  gilds,  giltls  the  place  they  shall  die  on.' 

I  looked  again,  and  the  Comet  was  just  departing  from 
the  heavens ;  its  fiery  train  was  no  longer  visible  ;  and  in 
an  instant  after  the  nucleus  disappeared. 

"  I  have  but  little  to  add  in  explanation.  I  learned  that, 
on  the  evening  of  our  meeting,  the  unfortunate  Brandt, 
who  had  carried  on  his  exploits  at  a  distance,  knowing 
that  a  price  was  set  upon  his  head,  had  fled  to  the  house 
where  his  wife  and  daughter  lived,  and  between  whom 
and  him  no  suspicion  of  any  connexion  existed,  resolving, 
if  he  escaped  his  present  danger,  to  give  up  his  perilous 
courses  ;  but  that  he  found  those  two  females  in  such  a 
state  of  wretchedness  and  starvation,  that  he  rushed  out, 
and  committed  the  act  for  which  he  forfeited  his  life. 
Had  I  but  asked  Adeline  her  name,  this  fatal  event  would 
not  have  happened  ;  for  I  should  most  assuredly  have 
removed  her  to  another  dwelling,  and  provided  in  some 
way  for  her  father's  safety  ;  or,  had  not  the  traditionary 
verses  restrained  us  from  mentioning  our  attachment  to 
any  one  until  the  hour  of  our  nuptials,  I  should  have 
revealed  it  to  the  Bandit,  and  so  taken  away  from  him 
every  inducement  for  following  his  lawless  occupation. 
Ill  news  is  not  long  in  spreading.  Adeline  heard  of  her 
father's  death,  and  that  1  was  the  occasion  of  it,  a  few 
hours  after  it  took  place.  The  same  cause  which  sent  her 
to  her  death-bed  roused  her  mother  from  the  couch  of 
lethargy  and  inaction  on  which  she  had  lain  for  so  many 
years  ;  and  I  found  that  she  was  the  wretched  old  woman 
whom  I  had  seen  attending  the  last  moments  of  her 
daughter. 

"  The  remainder  of  my  history  has  little  in  it  to  interest 
you.  I  left  the  university,  and  retired  to  my  father's  castle, 
where  I  shut  myself  up,  and  lived  a  very  recluse  life  until 
his  death,  which  happened  a  few  years  afterward,  obliged 
me  to  exert  myself  in  the  arrangement  of  my  family  affairs. 
The  lapse  of  years  gradually  alleviated,  although  itcould  not 
eradicate,  my  sorrow;  but  when  I  found  myself  approach- 


PROSE    ANB    POETRr.  293 


o 


iiig'  my  fortieth  year,  and  knew  that  the  comet  would  very 
soon  makn  its  reappearance,  I  could  not  bear  the  idea  of 
lookina:  again  upon  the  fatal  planet,  which  had  caused  me 
so  much  uneasiness.  I  thert-fore  resolved  to  travel  in 
some  country  where  it  would  not  be  visible  ;  and  having 
received  a  pressing  invitation  from  a  friend  in  England  to 
visit  his  native  land,  accompanied  by  an  intimation  that  his 
house,  ai  G.,  was  entirely  at  my  service,  I  did  not  hesitate 
to  accept  his  offer  You  know  something  of  m\  adven- 
tures there,  esprciaily  of  the  consrernation  which  I  occa- 
sioned bv  laying  down  gas  pipes  round  my  friend's  house, 
in  consequence  of  a  letter  which  I  had  received  from  him, 
requesting  me  to  take  the  trouble  to  superintend  th(  wojk- 
men.  Twenty  more  \ears  have  now  rolled  over  m>  head  ; 
the  comet  ha<5  reappe;'.red,  and  I  can  gaze  on  it  with  com- 
parative inditf^  rence  ;  and  as  it  is  just  about  taking  its 
leave  of  ns,  suppose  we  walk  out  and  enjoy  the  brightness 
of  its  departing  glory." 

I  accedf  d  to  the  old  gentleman's  proposal^  and  lent 
him  the  assistance  o!  my  arm  duriug  our  walk.  "•  Yonder 
fence,"  said  he,  "  s\u  rounds  my  friend  Berger's  garden, 
in  which  there  is  an  eminence  from  which  we  shall  get  a 
better  view.  The  gate  is  a  long  w-.iy  rovnd,  but  I  hink 
you,  and  even  I,  shall  hnd  but  little  difhculty  in  leaping 
this  fence  ;  1  will  indemnify  you  for  the  trespass  :"  and 
he  had  scarcely  spoken  before  he  was  on  the  other  side  of 
it.  1  followed  him,  and  we  proceeded  at  a  brisk  pace 
towards  a  beautiful  shiubbery,  on  an  elevated  spot  in  the 
centre  of  the  garden,  M.  von  Schwartzmann  led  the 
way,  but  he  had  scarcely  reached  the  summit  before  I 
heard  an  explosion  and  saw  him  fall  upon  the  ground.  I 
hastened  o  iiis  as-istance,  and  found  him  welterii.g  in  his 
blood.  I  raised  him,  and  su['ported  him  in  my  arms,  but 
he  shook  his  head,  saying,  "  No,  no,  my  friend,  it  is  all  in 
vain  !  tlie  inlluence  of  that  nialigu'int  Star  has  prevailed 
over  me.  I  forgot  that  my  friend  Berger  had  lately  planted 
spring  guns  in  his  grounds.  But  it  is  destiny,  and  not 
they,  which  has  destroyed  me.     Farewell  ! — farewell  !" 

In  these  words  his  last  biearh  was  spent ;  his  eyes, 
while  they  remained  open,  were  fixed  upon  the  comet,  and 
the  instant  they  closed,  the  ill-boding  planet  sunk  beneath 
the  horizon, 

"FoRGKT  Me  Not,"  1827. 


THE    MAGICIAN'S    VISITER. 


It  was  at  the  close  of  a  fine  autumnal  day,  and  the 
shades  of  evening'  were  beginninj^  to  gather  over  the  city  of 
Florence,  when  a  low  quick  rap  was  heard  at  the  door  of 
Cornelius  Agrippa,  and  shortly  afterward  a  Stranger  was 
introduced  into  the  apartment  in  which  the  Philosopher 
was  sitting  at  his  studies. 

The  Stranger,  although  finely  formed,  and  of  courteous 
demeanour,  had  a  certain  indefmahle  air  of  myster)-  about 
him,  which  excited  awe,  if,  indeed,  it  iiad  not  a  repellent 
effect.  His  years  it  was  difficult  to  s-ut-ss,  for  the  marks 
of  youth  and  age  were  blen<led  in  his  features  in  a  most 
extraordinary  manner.  There  was  not  a  furrow  in  his 
cheek,  nor  a  wrinkle  on  his  brow,  and  his  large  black  eye 
beamed  with  all  the  brilliancy  and  vivacity  of  youth  ;  but 
his  stately  figure  was  bent,  a|)parently  beneath  the  weight 
of  years ,  his  hair,  although  thi<  k  and  clustering,  was 
gray;  and  though  his  voice  was  ieehle  and  tremulous, 
yet  its  tones  were  of  the  most  ravishing  and  soul-searching 
melody.  Mis  costume  was  that  of  a  PMorentine  gentle- 
man ;  but  he  held  a  staff  like  that  of  a  Palmer  in  his  hand, 
and  a  silken  sash,  inscribed  with  oriental  chaiactera,  was 
bound  around  his  waist.  His  face  was  deadly  pale,  but 
every  feature  of  it  was  singularly  beautiful,  and  its  expres- 
sion was  that  of  profound  wisdom,  mingled  with  poignant 
sorrow. 

"  Pardon  me,  learned  Sir,"  said  he,  addressing  the  phi- 
losopher, "  but  your  fame  has  travelled  into  all  lands,  and 
has  reached  all  ears  ;  and  I  coidd  not  leave  the  fair 
city  of  Florence  without  seeking  an  interview  with  one  who 
is  its  greatest  boast  and  ornament." 

"  You  are  right  welcome,  Sir,"  returned  Agrippa  ;  "  but 
I  fear  that  your  trouble  and  curiosity  will  be  but  ill  repaid. 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  295 

I  am  simply  one,  who,  instead  of  devoting  my  days,  as  do 
the  wise,  to  the  acquirenieiit  of  wealth  and  honour,  have 
passed  long  years  in  painful  and  unprofitable  study ;  in 
endeavouring  to  iinravrl  the  secrets  of  Nature,  and  initia- 
ting niyselt  in  ihr  mysteries  of  the  occult  sciences." 

♦«  Talkest  thou  of  long  years  !"  echoed  the  Stranger, 
and  a  melancholy  smile  played  over  his  features  :  "  thou, 
who  hast  scarcely  seen  fourscore  since  thou  left'st  thy 
cradle,  and  for  whom  the  quiet  grave  is  now  waiting, 
eager  to  clasp  thee  in  her  sheltering  arms  !  I  was  among 
the  tombs  to-day,  the  still  and  solemn  tombs :  I  saw  them 
smiling  in  the  last  beams  of  the  setting  sun.  When  I  was 
a  boy,  I  used  to  wish  to  be  like  that  sun  ;  his  career  was 
so  long,  so  bright,  so  glorious  !  But  to-night  I  thought 
*  it  is  better  to  slumber  among  those  tombs  than  to  be  like 
him.'  To-night  he  sank  behind  the  hills,  apparently  to 
repose,  but  to-morrow  he  must  renew  his  course,  and  run 
the  same  dull  and  unvaried,  but  toilsome  and  unquiet,  race. 
There  is  no  grave  for  him  !  and  the  night  and  morning 
dews  are  the  tears  that  he  sheds  over  his  tyrannous 
destiny." 

Agrippa  was  a  deep  observer  and  admirer  of  external 
nature  and  of  all  her  phenomena,  and  had  often  gazed 
upon  the  scene  which  the  Stranger  described,  but  the  feel- 
ings and  ideas  which  it  awakened  in  the  mind  of  the  latter 
were  so  different  from  any  thing  which  he  had  himself 
experienced,  that  he  could  not  help,  for  a  season,  gazing 
upon  him  in  speechless  wonder.  His  guest,  however, 
speedily  resumed  the  discourse. 

"  But  I  trouble  you,  I  trouble  you  ;  then  to  my  purpose 
in  making  you  this  visit.  I  have  heard  strange  tales  of  a 
wondrous  Mirror,  which  your  potent  art  has  enabled  you 
to  construct,  in  which  whosoever  1.  loks  may  see  the  dis- 
tant, or  the  dead,  on  whom  he  is  desirous  again  to  fix  his 
gaze.  My  eyes  see  nothing  in  this  outward  visible  world 
which  can  be  pleasing  to  their  sight ;  the  grave  has  closed 
over  all  I  loved ;  and  Time  has  carried  down  its  stream 
every  thing  that  once  contributed  to  tny  enjoyment.  The 
world  is  a  vale  of  tears  :  but  among  all  the  tears  which 
water  that  sad  valley,  not  one  is  shed  for  me  !  the  fountain 
in  my  own  heart,  too,  is  dried  up.  I  would  once  again 
look  upon  the  face  which  I  loved  ;  I  would  sec  that  eye 


296  MISCELLANEOUS 

more  bright,  and  that  step  more  stately,  than  the  ante- 
lope's ;  ti)at  brow,  the  bruad  smooth  page  on  which  God 
had  inscribed  his  fuirest  characters.  1  would  gaze  on  all 
I  loved,  and  all  I  lost.  Such  a  gaze  would  be  dearer  to  my 
heart  than  all  that  the  world  has  to  offer  me  ;  except  the 
grave  !  except  the  grave  !  exce[)t  the  grave  !'' 

The  passionate  pleading  ot  the  Stranger  had  such  an 
effect  upon  Agrippa,  who  was  not  used  to  exhibit  his  mira- 
cle of  art  to  the  eyes  of  all  who  desired  to  look  in  it ; 
although  he  was  often  tempted  by  exorbitant  presents  and 
high  honours  to  do  so,  that  he  readily  consented  to  grant 
the  request  of  his  extiaordinary  visiter. 

"  Whom  wouldst  thou  see  ?"  he  inquir'^d. 

"  My  child !  my  own  sweet  Miriam  !"  answered  the 
Stranger. 

Cornelius  immediately  caused  every  ray  of  the  light  of 
heaven  to  be  excluded  from  the  chamber,  placed  the 
Stranger  on  his  ri^ht  hand,  and  conmienced  chanting,  in 
a  low  soft  tone,  and  in  a  strange  language,  some  lyrical 
verses,  to  which  the  Stranger  thought  he  heard  occasion- 
ally a  response  ;  but  it  was  a  sound  so  faint  and  indistinct 
thai  he  hardly  knew  whether  it  existed  any  where  but  in 
his  own  fancy.  As  Cornelius  continued  his  chant,  the 
room  gradually  became  dlumiiiated,  but  whence  the  light 
proceeded  it  was  impossible  to  discover.  At  length  the 
Stranger  plainly  perceived  a  large  Mirror,  which  covered 
the  whole  of  the  extreme  end  of  the  apartment,  and  over 
the  surface  of  which  a  dense  haze,  or  cloud,  seemed  to  be 
rapidly  passing. 

"  Died  she  in  wedlock's  holy  bands  ?"  inquired  Cor- 
nelius. 

"  She  was  a  virgin,  spotless  as  the  snow." 

"  How  many  years  have  passed  away  since  the  grave 
closed  over  her  ?" 

A  cloud  gathered  on  the  Stranger's  brow,  and  he  an- 
swered somewhat  impatiently,  "  Many,  many  !  more  than 
I  have  now  tinje  to  number." 

"  Nay,"  said  Agrippa,  "  but  I  must  know ;  for  every 
ten  years  that  have  elapsed  since  her  death  once  must  I 
wave  this  wand  ;  and  when  I  have  waved  it  for  the  last 
time  you  will  see  her  figure  in  yon  mirror," 


•PROSE    AND    FOETRY.  297 

"  ^Vave  on,  then,"  said  the  Stranger,  and  groaned  bit- 
terly, "  wave  on  ;  and  take  heed  that  thou  be  not  weary." 
Cornehus  Agrippa  gazed  on  his  strange  guest  with  some- 
thing of  anger,  but  he  excused  his  want  of  courtesy,  on 
the  ground  of  the  probable  extent  of  his  calamities.  He 
then  waved  his  magic  wand  many  times,  but,  to  his  con- 
sternation, it  seemed  to  have  lost  its  virtue.  Turning 
again  to  the  Stranger,  he  exclaimed,  "  Who,  and  what  art 
thou,  man  ?  Thy  presence  troubles  me.  According  to 
all  the  rules  of  my  art,  this  wand  has  already  described 
twice  two  hundred  years  :  still  has  the  surface  of  the  mir- 
ror experienced  no  alteration.  Say,  dost  thou  mock  me, 
and  did  no  such  person  ever  exist  as  thou  hast  described 
to  me  ?'      . 

"  Wave  on,  wave  on  !"  was  the  stern  and  only  reply 
which  this  interrogatory  extracted  from  the  Stranger. 

The  curiosity  of  Agrippa,  although  he  was  himself  a 
dealer  in  wonders,  began  now  to  be  excited,  and  a  myste- 
rious feeling  of  awe  forbade  him  to  desist  from  waving  his 
wand,  much  as  he  doubted  the  sincerity  of  his  visiter.  As 
his  arm  grew  slack,  he  heard  the  deep  solemn  tones  of  the 
Stranger,  exclaiming,  "  Wave  on,  wave  on !"  and  at 
length,  after  his  wand,  according  to  the  calculations  of  his 
art,  had  described  a  period  of  nearly  hfteen  hundred  years, 
the  cloud  cleared  away  from  the  surface  of  the  mirror,  and 
the  Stranger,  with  an  exclamation  of  delight,  arose,  and 
gazed  rapturously  upon  the  scene  which  was  there  repre- 
sented. 

An  exquisitely  rich  and  romantic  prospect  was  before 
him  :  in  the  distance  arose  lofty  mountains  crowned  with 
cedars ;  a  rapid  stream  rolled  in  the  centre,  and  in  the 
foreground  were  seen  camels  grazing ;  a  rill  trickling  by, 
in  wliich  some  sheep  were  quenching  their  thirst ;  and  a 
lofty  palm-tree,  beneath  whose  shade  a  young  female  of 
exquisite  beauty,  and  richly  habited  in  the  costume  of  the 
East,  was  sheltering  herself  from  the  rays  of  the  noontide 
sun. 

"'Tis  she  !'  tis  she  !"  shouted  the  Stranger,  and  he  was 
rushing  towards  the  mirror,  but  was  prevented  by  Corne- 
lius, who  said, — 

"  Forbear,  rash  man,  to  quit  this  spot !  with  each  step 
that  thou  advancest  towards  the  mirror,  the  image  will 

Pp 


,^98  MISCELLANEOUS 

become  iainter,  and  shouldst  thou  approach  too  near,  it 
will  entirely  vanish." 

Thus  warned,  he  resumed  liis  station,  hut  his  agitation 
was  so  excessive,  that  he  was  obliged  to  lean  on  the  arm 
of  the  philosopher  for  support ;  while,  from  time  to  time, 
he  uttered  incoherent  expressions  of  wonder,  delight,  and 
lamentation,  "'Tis  she!  'tis  she!  even  as  she  looked 
while  living  I  How  beautiful  she  is  !  Miriam,  my  child  ! 
canst  thou  not  speak  to  me  ?  B^  Ht  aven,  she  moves ! 
she  smiles  !  Oh  !  speak  to  me  a  single  word  !  or  only 
breathe,  or  sigh  !  Alas  !  all 's  silent :  dull  and  desolate  as 
this  cold  heart !  Again  that  smile  !  that  smile,  the  remem- 
brance of  which  a  thousand  years  have  not  been  able  to 
freeze  up  in  my  heart !  Old  man,  it  is  in  vain  to  hold  me  ! 
I  must,  will  clasp  her  !" 

As  he  uttered  these  last  words,  he  rushed  franticly" 
towards  the  mirror  ;  the  scene  represented  within  it  faded 
away;  the  cloud  gathered  again  over  its  surface,  and  the 
stranger  sunk  senseless  to  the  earth  ! 

When  he  recovered  his  consciousness,  he  found  himself 
in  the  arms  of  Agrippa,  who  was  chafing  his  temples  and 
gazing  on  him  with  looks  of  fear  and  wonder.  He  imme- 
diately rose  on  his  feeJ,  with  restored  strength,  and,  press- 
ing the  hand  of  his  host,  he  said,  '<  Thanks,  thanks,  for 
thy  courtesy  and  thy  kindness ;  and  for  the  sweet  but 
painful  sight  which  thou  hast  presented  to  my  eyes." 

As  he  spake  these  words,  he  put  a  purse  into  the  hand 
of  Cornelius,  but  the  latter  returned  it,  saying,  "  Nay, 
nay,  keep  thy  gold,  friend.  I  know  not,  indeed,  that  a 
Christian  man  dare  take  it ;  but,  be  that  as  it  may,  1  shall 
esteem  njyself  sufficiently  repaid,  if  thou  wilt  tell  me  who 
thou  art." 

"  Behold  !"  said  the  stranger,  pointing  to  a  large  histo- 
rical picture  which  hung  on  the  left  hand  of  the  room. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  philosopher,  "  an  exquisite  work  of 
art,  the  production  of  one  of  our  best  and  earliest  artists, 
representing  our  Saviour  carrying  his  cross." 

"But  look  again!""  said  the  stranger,  fixing  his  keen 
dark  eyes  intently  on  him,  and  pointing  to  a  figure  on  the 
left  hand  of  the  picture. 

Cornelius  gazed,  and  saw  with  wonder  what  he  had  not 
observed  before,  the  extraordinary  resemblance  which  this 


PROSE  AND  POETRY.  299 

liguic  bore  to  the  stranger,  of  whom,  indeed,  it  might  be 
said  to  be  a  portrait.  "  That,"  said  Cornelius,  with  an 
emotion  of  horror,  "  is  intended  to  represent  the  unhappy 
infidel  who  smote  the  divine  Sufterer  for  not  walking  faster; 
and  was,  therefore,  condemned  to  walk  the  earth  himself, 
until  the  period  of  that  sufterer's  second  coming."  "'Tis 
I !  'tis  I !"  exclaimed  the  stranger ;  and  rushing  out  of 
the  house,  rapidly  disappeared. 

Then  did  Cornelius  Agrippa  know  that  he  had  been 
conversing  with  the  Wandering  Jew ! 

"Forget  Me  Not,"  1828. 


THE    IIOIJRI. 

A  PERSIAN  TALE. 


In  the  414th  year  of  the  Hegh'a,  Shah  Abbas  Sehni 
reigned  in  the  kingdom  of  Iraura,  He  was  a  young  and 
an  accomphshed  prince,  who  had  distinguished  himself 
alike  by  his  valour  in  the  field,  and  by  his  wisdom  in  the 
cabinet.  Justice  was  fairly  and  equally  administered 
throughout  his  dominions ;  the  nation  grew  wealthy  and 
prosperous  under  his  sway;  and  the  neighbouring  poten- 
tates, all  of  whom  either  feared  his  power,  or  admired  his 
character,  were  ambitious  of  being  nunsbered  among  the 
friends  and  allies  of  Abbas  Selim,  Amidst  all  these 
advantages,  a  tendency  to  pensiveness  and  melancholy, 
•which  had  very  early  marked  his  disposition,  began  to 
assume  an  absolute  dominion  over  him.  He  avoided  the 
pleasures  of  the  chase,  the  banquet,  and  the  harem ;  and 
would  shut  himself  up  for  days  and  weeks  in  his  library, 
the  most  valuable  and  extensive  collection  of  oriental  lite- 
rature then  extant,  where  he  passed  his  time  principally  in 
the  study  of  the  occult  sciences,  and  in  the  perusal  of  the 
works  of  the  magicians  and  the  astrologers.  One  of  the 
most  remarkable  features  of  his  character  was  the  indiffer- 
ence with  which  he  regarded  the  beautiful  females,  Cir- 
cassians, Georgians,  and  Franks,  who  thronged  his  court, 
and  who  tasked  their  talents  and  charms  to  the  utmost  to 
find  favour  in  the  eyes  of  the  Shah.  Exclamations  of 
fondness  for  some  unknown  object  would,  nevertheless, 
often  burst  from  his  lips  in  the  midst  of  his  profoundest 
reveries ;  and,  during  his  slumbers,  he  was  frequently 
heard  to  murmur  expressions  of  the  most  passionate  love. 
Such  of  his  subjects,  whose  offices  placed  them  near  hip 


MISCELLANEOUb    TRUSE,    ETC.  301 

person,  were  deeply  alllicted  at  the  symptoms  which  they 
observed,  and  feared  that  they  indicated  an  aberration  of 
reason  ;  but  when  called  upon  to  give  any  directions,  or 
to  take  any  step  for  the  management  of  the  affairs  of  the 
nation,  he  still  exhibited  his  wonted  sagacity  and  wisdom, 
and  excited  the  praise  and  wonder  of  all. 

He  had  been  lately  observed  to  hold  long  and  frequent 
consultations  with  the  magicians.  The  kingdom  had  been 
scoured  from  east  to  west  in  search  of  the  most  skilful  and 
learned  men  of  this  class :  but  whatever  might  be  the 
questions  which  Abbas  Selim  propounded,  it  seemed  that 
none  of  them  could  give  satisfactory  answers.  His  melan- 
choly deepened,  and  his  fine  manly  form  was  daily  wasting 
under  the  influence  of  some  unknown  malady.  The  only 
occupations  which  seemed  at  all  to  sooth  him,  were 
singing  and  playing  on  his  dulcimer.  The  tunes  were 
described,  by  those  who  sometimes  contrived  to  catch  a 
few  notes  of  them,  to  be  singularly  wild  and  original,  and 
such  as  they  had  never  heard  before  ;  and  a  courtier,  more 
daring  than  the  rest,  once  ventured  so  near  the  royal  pri- 
vacy as  to  be  able  to  distinguish  the  words  of  a  song, 
which  were  to  the  foUov/ing  effect : —     " 

"  Sweet  Spirit !  ne'er  did  T  behold 

Thy  ivory  neck,  thy  locks  of  gold  ; 

Or  gaze  into  thy  full  dark  eye  ; 

Or  on  thy  snowy  bosom  lie  ; 

Or  take  in  mine  thy  small  white  hand ; 

Or  bask  beneath  thy  smilings  bland  ; 

Or  walk,  enraptured,  by  the  side 
,    Of  thee,  my  own  immortal  bride ! 

■    ■  ,'       I  see  thee  not ;  yet  oft  I  hear 

Thy  soft  voice  whispering  in  mine  ear  ; 

And,  when  the  evening  breeze  I  seek, 

I  feel  thy  kiss  upon  my  cheek  ; 

And  when  the  moonbeams  softly  fall 

On  hill,  and  tower,  and  flovvcr-crown'd  waJIy 

Methinks  the  patriarch's  dream  I  see, 

The  ste{)s  that  lead  to  Heaven  and  thee  I 

I've  heard  thee  wake,  wiUi  touch  refined, 
Tiie  viewless  liarp-strings  of  the  wind  : 


30^  MISCELLANEOUS 

When  on  iny  cars  their  soft  tones  fell, 
Sweet  as  the  voice  of  Israfel.* 
I  'vc  seen  thee,  'midst  the  hffhtninff's  sheen. 
Lift  up  for  ine  Heaven's  cloudy  screen. 
And  give  one  glimpse,  one  transient  glare. 
Of  the  full  blaze  of  glory  there. 

Oft  midst  my  wanderings  wild  and  wide, 
I  know  that  thou  art  by  my  side  ; 
For  flowers  breathe  sweeter  'neath  thy  tread, 
And  suns  burn  brighter  o'er  thy  head  ; 
And  though  thy  steps  so  noiseless  steal ; 
Though  thou  didst  ne'er  thy  form  reveal, 
My  throbbing  heart,  and  pulses  high, 
Tell  me,  sweet  Spirit !  thou  art  nigh. 

Oh  !  for  the  hour,  the  happy  hour, 
When  Azrael'st  wings  shall  to  thy  bower 
Bear  my  enfranchised  soul  away, 
Unfetter'd  with  these  chains  of  clay ! 
For  what  is  he,  whom  men  so  fear, 
Azrael,  the  solemn  and  severe  ! 
What,  but  the  white-robed  priest  is  he, 
Who  weds  my  happy  soul  to  thee ! 

Then  shall  we  rest  in  bowers  that  bloom 
With  more  than  Araby's  perfume  ; 
And  gaze  on  scenes  so  fair  and  bright, 
Thought  never  soar'd  so  proud  a  height : 
And  list  to  many  a  sweeter  note 
Than  swells  th'  enamour'd  Bulbul's  throat 
And  one  melodious  Ziraleet| 
Through  Heaven's  eternal  year  repeat !' 


I" 


One  evening,  when  the  Shah  was  thus  occupied,  his 
prime  minister  and  favourite,  prince  Ismael,  introduced 
into  his  apartment  a  venerable  man,  whose  white  hair, 
long  flowing  beard,  and  wan  and  melancholy,  but  highly 
intellectual  features,  failed  not  to  arrest  the  attention, 
and  command  the  respect,  of  all  who  beheld  him.  His 
garments  were  plain  and  simple,  even  to  coarseness ;  but 
he  was  profusely  decorated  with  jewels,  apparently  of 

*  The  Angel  of  Music,     t  'f  he  Angel  of  Peath,      t  A  son*  of  rejoicing. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY.  303 

considerable  value ;   and  bore  a  long  white  wand  in  his 
hand. 

"  I  have  at  length,  Oh  King  !"  said  the  minister,  "  met 
with  the  famous  Achmet  Hassan,  who  professes,  that  if  it 
be  in  the  power  of  any  mortal  to  procure  the  gratification 
of  your  Highness's  wishes,  that  power  resides  in  him." 

"  Let  him  enter,"  said  the  Shah.  The  Minister  made 
an  obeisance,  introduced  the  Sage,  and  retired. 

"  Old  man,"  said  Abbas  Shah,  "  thou  knowest  where- 
fore I  have  sought  thee,  and  what  i  have  desired  of  thee?" 

"  Prince,"  said  Achmet,  "  thou  wouldst  see  the  Houri, 
the  Queen  of  thy  B  »vver  of  Paradise  ;  her  who,  in  pre- 
ference to  all  the  other  dark-eyed  daughters  of  Heaven, 
Avill  greet  thee  there,  and  shall  be  thy  chosen  companion 
in  those  blissful  regions." 

"  Thou  say  est  it !''  said  the  Shah.  "  Can  thy  boasted 
Art  procure  me  a  sight,  be  it  even  transitory  as  the  light- 
ning's flash,  of  that  heavenly  bemg  1" 

"  King  of  Iraun  !"  said  the  Sage,  "  the  heavenly 
Houiis  are  of  two  different  natures.  They  are,  for  the 
most  part,  of  a  peculiar  creation  ibrnied  to  inhabit  those 
buwers  ;  but  a  itw  are  sinless  and  beautiful  virgins  ; 
natives  of  this  l(jwer  world  ;  who,  after  death,  are  en- 
dowed with  tenfold  charms,  which  surf)ass  even  those  of 
the  native  daughters  of  Paradise.  If  thy  immortal  Biide 
be  of  the  former  nature,  she  is  beyond  the  reach  of  my 
Art ;  but  if  she  be  of  the  latter,  and  have  not  yet  quitted 
our  world,  I  can  call  her  Spirit  before  thee,  and  thine 
eyes  may  be  gratified  by  gazing  upon  her,  although  it  will 
be  only  for  a  moment,  transitory,  as  thou  hast  said,  as  the 
lightning's  flash  !" 

"  Try,  then,  thy  potent  Art,"  said  the  Prince.  "  Thou 
hast  wound  up  my  Spirit  to  a  pitch  of  intense  desire. 
Let  me  gaze  upon  her,  if  it  be  but  for  an  instant." 

"  Prince  !"  said  the  Sage,  fixing  his  dark  bright  eye 
upon  the  Shah,  "  hope  not  to  possess  her  upon  Earth. 
Any  attempt  at  discovering  her  abode,  or  making  her 
thine  own,  will  be  disastrous  to  you  both.  Promise  me 
that  thou  will  not  think  of  any  such  enterprise." 

"  I  promise  ihcc  any  thing, — every  thing  !  But  haste 
thee,  good  Achmet,  haste  thee  ;  for  my  heart  is  full,  even 
to  overflowing." 


304  MISCELLANEOUS 

The  Sage  with  his  wand  then  described  a  circle  round 
the  I'liiice.  within  which  ho  placed  several  boxes  of  frank- 
incense, and  other  preciijus  spices  ;  and  afterward  kindled 
them.     A  light  thin  cloud  of  the  most  odorous  fragrance 
began  to  diffuse  itself  over  the  apartment ;  Achmtt  bowed 
his  head  to  the  ground  repeatedi}  during  this  ceremony, 
and  waved  his  wand,  uttt  ring  many  sounds  in  a  language 
with  whii'h  the   Shah  was  unacquainted.     At  hngth,  as 
the  cloud   began  to  grow  more  dense,  the  old  man  drew 
himself  up  to  his  utmost  height,  leaned  his  right  hand  on 
his  wand,  which   he  rested  on  the  floor,  and,  in  a  low, 
solemn  tone,  uttered  an  Incantation,  which  seemed  to  be 
a  metrical  composition,   but  was  in  the  same   unknown 
language.     It  lasted  several  minutes;  and  while  he  was 
pronouncing  it,    the  cloiid,   which  was  spread   over  the 
whole  apartment,  seemed  gradually  gathering  together, 
and  forming  a  condensed  body.     An  unnatural,  but  bril- 
liant light  then  pervaded  the  chamber,  and  the  cloud  was 
seen   resolving  itself  into  the   resemblance  of  a  human 
shape,  until  at  length  the  Prince  saw,  or  fancied  that  he 
saw,  a  beautiful  female  figure  standing  before  him.     His 
own  surprise  was    no  greater  than  that  of  the  old  man, 
who  gazed  upon  the  phantom  he  had  raised,  and  trembled 
as  he  gazed.     It  appeared  to  be  a  young  female,  about 
llfteen  years  of  age.     She  was  tall,  and  her  form  exhi- 
bited the  most  wonderful  symmetiy.   Her  eyes  were  large, 
bright,  and  black  ;   her  complexion  was  as  though  it  had 
borrowed  the  combined   hues  of  the  ruby  and  the  pearl, 
being  of  an  exquisite  white  and  red.     Her  lips  and  her 
teeth  each  exhibited  one  of  these  colours  in  perfection  ; 
and  her  long,  dark  hair  was  crowned  with  flowers,  and 
flowed  in  glossy  ringlets  down  to  her  waist.     She  was 
dressed  in  a  long  flowing  lobe  of  dazzling  whiteness;  she 
neither  moved  nor  spoke  :  only  once  the  Prince  thought 
that  she  smiled  u|)on  him,  and  then  the  figure  instantly 
vanished  ;  the  preternatural  light  left  the  apartment,  and 
the  mild  moonbeams  again    streamed  through  the  open 
lattices. 

Before  the  exclamation  of  joy  which  was  formed  in 
the  Prince's  bosom  could  reach  his  lips,  it  was  changed 
into  a  yell  of  disappointment.  "  Old  man  !"  he  said, 
'■'^'  thou  triflest  with  me  !  thou  hast  presented  this  vision  to 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  30-5 

my  eyes  only  that  thou  might'st  withdraw  it  immediately. 
Call  back  that  lovely  form,  or,  by  Mahomet  I  thou  shalt 
exchange  thj  head  for  the  privilege  which  thou  hast 
chosen  to  exercise  of  tormenting  Abbas  Selim." 

*'  Is  it  thus,  Oh  King  !''  said  Acbmet,  "  that  thou  re- 
wardest  the  efforts  made  by  thy  faithful  subjects  to  fulfil 
thy  wishes  "?  I  have  tasked  my  Art  to  its  utmost  extent : 
to  call  back  that  vision,  or  to  present  it  again  to  thine 
eyes,  is  beyond  my  skill." 

"  But  she  lives  !  she  breathes  !  she  is  an  inhabitant  of 
this  world  !"  said  the  Prince. 

"  Even  so,"  returned  the  other. 

"  Then  I'll  search  all  Iraun  ;  I'll  despatch  emissaries 
over  all  the  world,  that  wherever  she  be,  she  may  be 
brought  hither  to  fill  up  the  vacuum  in  my  heart,  and  to 
share  the  throne  of  Abbas  Selim  !" 

"  The  instant,"  said  Achmet,  "  that  your  Highness's 
eyes  meet  hers,  her  fate  is  sealed  ;  she  will  not  long  re- 
main an  inhabitant  of  Earth.  It  is  written  in  the  Book  of 
Fate  that  she  shall  not  be  the  bride  of  mortal  man.'' 

"  Death,  traitor  !"  said  the  Monarch  ;  "am  I  not  the 
Shah  ?  who  shall  gainsay  my  will  1  what  shall  oppose  it  ?" 

"  The  will  of  Heaven !"  replied  the  sage,  calmly.  "The 
irrevocable  decrees  of  Destiny." 

"  Away  !  avaunt  !  thou  drivelling  idiot  !"  said  Selim, 
"  let  me  not  see  thee  more  !" 

The  Shah's  maladies,  both  mental  and  bodil}^  increased 
alarmingly  after  this  event.  The  lovely  phantom  haunted 
him  sleeping  and  waking.  He  lost  all  appetite  and 
strength  ;  and  appeared  to  be  fast  sinking  into  the  grave. 
At  length  he  bethought  himself,  that  if  he  could,  from 
memory,  sketch  the  features  which  he  had  beheld,  he 
might  possibly  thence  derive  some  consolation.  He  pos- 
sessed some  talent  for  drawing  ;  his  remembrance  of  the 
form  and  features  was  most  vivid  and  distinct ;  and,  guid- 
ing his  pencil  with  his  heart  rather  than  his  hand,  he 
succeeded  in  producing  a  most  extraordinary  likeness. 
He  then  summoned  into  his  presence  a  skilful  and  accom- 
plished Funner,  in  whose  hands  he  deposited  the  sketch, 
and,  describing  to  him  the  colour  of  the  hair,  eyes,  and 
complexion,  of  the  original,  desired  him  to  paint  a 
portrait. 

Qq      • 


aOii  MISCELLANEOUS 

The  Artist  gazed  upon  the  sketch,  and  listened  to  the 
(lesciiption  witli  profound  attention,  and  evident  surprise. 
"  Surely,"  said  he,  "  I  have  seen  her  whose  features  are 
here  delineated.  Indeed  they  are  features  which  are  not 
easily  mistaken,  for  she  is  beautiful  as  one  of  the  damsels 
of  Paradise." 

"  Sayest  thou  so  ?"  said  the  Monarch,  starting  from 
his  seat,  while  he  tore  from  his  turban  some  jewels  of  in- 
estimable value,  which  he  thrust  into  the  Painter's  hand, 
"  Knowest  thou  where  to  find  her  ?' 

"  She  lives  in  the  southern  suburbs,"  answered  the 
limner.  "  Her  name  is  Selima,  and  her  Father  is  a  poor 
but  learned  man,  who  is  constantly  buried  in  his  studies, 
and  is  unconscious  of  the  value  of  the  gem  which  is  hid- 
den under  his  humble  roof." 

"  Haste  thee,  good  Ali,  haste  thee  !  bring  her  hither  ! 
Let  no  difficulties  or  dangers  impede  thee,  and  there  is 
not  a  favour  in  the  power  of  the  Monarch  of  Iraun  to 
grant  which  thou  shalt  ask  in  vain." 

Ali  flew  rather  than  ran  to  the  abode  of  his  fair  friend, 
in  whose  welfare  he  had  always  taken  a  lively  interest. 
He  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  the  lovely 
Selima  herself. 

" Sweet  Selima,"  he  said,  "I  have  strange  news  for 
thee." 

"  Speak  it  then,"  she  answered  smilingly  ;  "  be  it  bad 
or  good,  the  sooner  I  hear  it  the  better." 

"  I  have  a  message  for  thee  from  the  Shah." 

"  The  Shah  I"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  a 
mysterious  £xpression  of  intelligence  and  wonder ;  but 
she  did  not,  extraordinary  as  was  the  information,  appear 
to  entertain  the  slightest  doubt  of  its  veracity.  "  'Tis 
wondrous  strange !" 

"  'Tis  true,"  said  the  limner.  "  He  placed  in  my  hands 
a  sketch  for  a  female  portrait,  in  which  I  instantly  recog- 
nised your  features." 

"  It  is  but  a  ftw  days  ago,"  said  she,  "  that  1  had  an 
extraordinary  dream.  Methought  I  was  in  an  apartment 
of  surprising  extent  and  magnificence.  A  cloud  of  fra- 
grant odours  filled  the  room;  the  cloud  became  gradually 
condensed,  and  then  assumed  the  form  of  a  young  man 
of  most  majestic  form  and  handsome  features.     Although 


♦  PROSE    AND    POETRl.  307 

I  had  never  seen  the  Shah,  I  soon  knew,  by  his  pale, 
proud  brow,  so  sad  and  yet  so  beautiful ;  his  bright, 
sparkling  blue  eye  ;  his  tall,  stately  form  ;  and  his  regal 
gait ;  that  this  could  be  none  other  than  Abbas  Selini. 
He  smiled  sweetly  upon  me  ;  he  took  my  hand  in  his  ; 
but  as  his  lips  approached  mine  I  awoke,  and  saw  only  the 
cold  moonbeams  gilding  my  chamber." 

"  Sweet  Selima !  why  have  I  never  heard  of  this  before  1" 

"  I  told  it  all  to  my  father,"  said  she  ;  "but  he  frowned 
upon  me,  and  bade  me  think  of  it  no  more  ;  and  to  tell 
my  dream  to  no  one.  But  thy  strange  message  has  made 
me  violate  his  command.  I  have  thought  of  nothing  but 
Abbas  Selim  since.  How  happy  ought  the  nation  to  be 
whom  he  governs  ;  and,  above  all,  how  happy  the  maiden 
whom  he  loves  !" 

"  Then  art  thou,  my  Selima,  supremely  happy,'*  said 
the  Painter  ;  "  for  of  thee  is  he  enamoured  to  desperation. 
Thou  must  accompany  me  immediately  to  the  palace." 

In  the  mean  time  the  Shah  paced  his  apartment  in  an 
agony  of  in»patience.  "  Curse  on  this  lingering  limner  !" 
he  exclaimed ;  "  has  he  combined  with  the  Magian  to 
drive  me  to  distraction  ?  May  every  vile  peasant  press 
to  his  heart  the  being  whom  he  adores,  and  am  I,  the  lord 
of  this  vast  empire,  to  sigh  in  vain,  and  to  be  continually 
tormented  with  faint  and  momentary  glimpses  of  the 
heaven  from  which  I  am  debarred  ?" 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words,  when  the  private 
entrance  to  his  apartment,  to  which  he  had  given  the 
Painter  a  passport,  opened,  and  his  messenger  entered, 
leading  his  fair  companion  by  the  hand.  No  sooner  did 
the  Monarch's  eyes  encounter  those  of  Selima,  than  he 
instantly  knew  that  he  was  in  the  real,  substantial  pre- 
sence of  her  whose  ])hantom  he  had  beheld.  His  wonder 
and  delight  knew  no  bounds,  nor  will  the  power  of  lan- 
guage suffice  to  describe  them.  He  pressed  to  his  heart 
the  object  for  which  he  had  so  long  panted.  Health  and 
strength  appeared  to  be  suddenly  restored  to  him ;  new 
life  seemed  rushing  through  his  veins  ;  and  his  buoyant 
step  and  elastic  tread  seemed  to  belong  to  a  world  less 
gross  and  material  than  that  in  which  he  dwelt.  When 
the  first  paroxysm  of  his  raptures  was  over,  he  summoned 
the  chief  Imaum  into  his  presence,  and  gave  him  orders 


308  MISCELLANEOUS 

to  follow  him  into  the  mosque  attaclied  to  the  palace,  for 
the  purpose  of  immediately  celebrating-  his  nuptials  with 
Selima. 

The 'Priest  gazed  intently  on  the  Bride,  and  his  features 
became  deadly  agitated.  "  The  will  ol  Abbas  Stlim,"  he 
said,  "is  the  law  of  his  faithful  subjects;  but  if  I  have 
read  the  Koraun  aiight,  and  if  m}  studies  have  not  been 
idly  pursued,  the  linger  of  Death  is  on  yon  fair  maiden, 
and  her  nuptial  with  the  Shah  will  but  accelerate  the 
approach  of  Azrael." 

"  Dotard  !"  said  the  Prince  ;  and  he  gazed  upon  Se- 
Ihna,  whose  features  glowed  with  all  the  hues  of  beauty  and 
health  :  "  tell  not  to  me  thy  idle  dreams,  but  perform  thine 
office,  and  be  silent.'' 

The  chidden  Priest  obeyed  the  last  injunction  of  his 
Sovereign,  and,  with  head  depressed  and  folded  arms, 
followed  him  and  his  Bride  to  the  mosque  ;  which  was 
hastily  prepared  for  the  celebration  of  these  unexpected 
nuptials.  Heavily  and  faltering  he  pronounced  the  rites, 
which  were  just  on  the  point  ol  being  concluded,  when 
a  man  rushed  into  the  mosque,  and,  with  frantic  and 
threatening  gestures,  placed  himsell"  between  the  Bride 
and  Bridegroom.     It  was  Achmet  Hassan. 

"Forbear,  forbear  !"  he  cried,  "  or  Allah's  curse  light 
on  you  !" 

'*  It  is  the  traitorous  Magian,"  said  the  Shah.  "  Villain  I 
wouldst  thou  beard  thy  Sjvereign  even  at  his  nuptial 
hour  r 

As  he  spoke,  he  unsheathed  his  scimitar,  and  rushed 
towards  Achmet,  "  Save  him  ;  spare  him  !"  shrieked  the 
Bride  ;  "  it  is  my  father  !"  and  rushed  between  them, 
the  Shah's  weapon  pierced  her  to  the  heart,  and  she  sank 
lifeless  to  the  earth. 

All  were  struck  mute  and  motionless  with  horror  at  this 
I'atal  event.  When  they  had  somewhat  recovered  from 
their  stupor,  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  Shah.  Still, 
and  cold,  and  silent,  as  a  statue,  he  occupied  the  same 
place  as  at  the  mouient  of  this  fearful  catastrophe.  His 
eyes  glared  fixedly  and  unmeaningly ;  and  his  lips  and 
cheeks  were  of  an  ashy  paleness.  He  returned  no  answer 
to  the  inquiries  which  were  made  of  him,  and  the  import 
of  which  it  was  evident  that  he  did  not  comprehend.     !u 


PROSE  AND  POETRk.  309 

tact,  it  was  clear  that  reason  had  fled  from  the  once  highly 
endowed  mind  of  Abbas  Selim  ;  and  that  the  reign  of  one 
of  the  greatest  and  most  highly-accompHshed  princes  who 
had  ever  filled  the  throne  of  Ptrsia  was  terminated. 

In  a  state  of  lisll»:'ssness  and  insanity  he  continued  for 
above  a  twelvf  mouth  A  ttw  apartments  of  the  palace 
were  all  that  remained  to  him  of  his  once  might\  empire, 
and  the  sceptre  passed  into  the  hand  of  his  brother.  His 
most  faithful  and  constant  attendant  was  the  unhappy 
Achmet  Hassan,  whom  he  had  rt  ndereU  childless  ;  and 
on  whose  bosom  he  breathed  his  latest  sigh.  As  the  hour 
of  death  approached,  his  intellects  seemed  to  return  ;  but 
his  malady  had  so  entirely  exhausted  his  strength,  that  he 
could  not  utter  a  syllable.  Once,  from  the  motion  of  his 
lips,  it  was  supposed  that  he  was  endeavouring  to  pro- 
nounce the  name  of  Seliraa  ;  then  a  faint  smile  illumined 
his  features,  while  he  pointed  to  the  casement,  and  the 
deep  blue  sky  which  was  seen  through  it,  and  his  enfran- 
chised Spirit  fled  to  the  bowers  of  Paridise. 

"Forget  Me  Not."     1829, 


STAJVZAS. 


I  wandew'd  by  her  side  in  Life's  sweet  Spring  ; 

When  all  the  world  seein'd  beautiful  and  young  ; 
When  Hope  was  truth,  and  she  a  peerless  thing, 

Round  whom  my  heart's  best,  fondest  wishes  clung  : 
Her  cheek  was  fann'd,  not  smitten,  by  Time's  wing  ; 

Her  heart  Love  had  drawn  sweets  from,  but  ne'er  stung 
And,  as  in  Youth's,  and  Beauty's,  light  she  moved, 
Alt  bless'd  her  ! — she  was  lovely  and  beloved  ! 

I  stood  by  her  again,  when  her  cheek  bloom'd 
Brighllicr  than  aye,  but  wore  an  ominous  hue  ; 

And  her  eye's  liglit  was  dimm'd  not,  but  assumed 
A  fiercer,  ghastlier,  but  intenser  blue  : 

And  her  wan  cheek  proclaim'd  that  she  was  doom'd, 
And  her  worn  frame  her  soul  seem'd  bursting  through  ; 

And  friends  and  lovers  were  around  her  sighing. 

And  Life's  last  sands  were  ebbing,— she  was  dying  ! 

I  stood  by  her  once  more  ;  and,  bending  down, 

Seal'd  on  her  lips  a  pledge,  which  they  return'd  not ; 

And  press'd  her  to  my  bosom,  but  her  own 

With  Life's  warm  fires,  to  mine  responsive,  burn'd  not ; 

And  clasp'd  her  hand,  but,  as  in  days  by-gone. 

Her  heart's  thoughts  from  its  eloquent  pulse  I  learn'd  not ; 

Light  from  her  eye,  hue  from  her  cheek,  had  fled, 

And  her  warm  heart  was  frozen  ; — she  was  dead  ! 

"  Monthly  Magazine." 


LINES 

Written  after  visiting  a  scene  in  Switzerland. 

Thou  glorious  scene !  my  wondering  eye 

Hath  gazed  on  thee  at  last, 
And  by  the  proud  reality 

Found  Fancy's  dreams  surpass  d. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POETRY,  &C.  311 

'Twas  like  the  vision  which  of  old 

To  the  Saint  seer  was  given, 
When  the  sky  open'd,  and,  behold  ! 

A  Throne  was  set  in  Heaven.* 

For  there  the  everlasting  Alps 

To  the  deep  azure  soar'd  ; 
And  the  Sun  on  their  snowy  scalps 

A  flood  of  glory  pour'd. 

A  present  Deity,  that  Sun 

Above  them  seenrd  to  blaze  ; 
Too  strong  and  bright  to  gaze  upon, 

Too  glorious  not  to  gaze. 
Below,  the  bright  lake  far  and  wide 

Spread  like  a  crystal  sea, 
Whose  deep,  calm  waters  seenti'd  to  glide, 

Eternity,  to  thee ! 

Long,  long,  thou  glorious  scene  !  shalt  thou 

Within  my  memory  dwell  ; 
More  vivid  and  heart-gladd'ning  now, 

Than  when  I  mark'd  thee  well. 

More  vivid  and  heart-gladd'ning  too, 

Than  the  wild  dreams  I  nursed 
Of  thee  and  thine,  ere  on  my  view, 

Thy  world  of  wonders  burst. 

Tor  Fancy's  picture  was  a  gleam. 

Weak,  faint,  and  shadowy  ; 
And  brief  and  passing  as  a  dream, 

The  gaze  I  bend  on  thee. 

13ut  now,  thou  art  a  thing  enshrined 

Withm  my  inmost  heart ; 
A  part  and  portion  of  my  mind,  ~ 

Which  cannot  thence  depart. 

♦After  this  I  looked,  and  behold,  a  door  was  opened  in  Heaven,  and 
the  first  voice  which  I  heard,  was  as  it  were  of  a  trumpet  talking  with  me  ; 
which  said,  "  Come  up  hither,  and  I  will  show  thee  tilings  Avhichmust  be 
hereafter:  and  immediately  I  was  in  the  Spirit;  and  behold,  a  Throne 
was  set  in  Heaven,  and  One  sat  on  the  Throne  :  and  He  that  sat  was 
to  look  upon  like  a  jasper,  and  a  sardine  stone.  And  before  the  Throne 
there  was  a  sea  of  glass  like  unto  crystal. 

Kkvelatiok  iv.   1,  2,  3,  and  6« 


312  iMISCELLANEOUS 

Deep  woes  may  whelm,  long  years  may  roll. 

Their  course  o'er  inc  in  vain  ; 
But  fix'd  for  ever  in  my  Soul 

Thine  image  shall  remain. 

"  Monthly  Magazine." 


THE  CRUSADER'S  SONG. 

"  Remember  the  Holy  Sepulchre." 

Forget  the  land  which  gave  ye  birth  ; 

Forget  the  womb  that  bore  ye  ; 
Forget  each  much-loved  spot  of  earth  : 

Forget  each  dream  of  glory  ; 
Forget  the  friends  that  by  your  side, 

Stood  firm  as  rocks  unbroken  ; 
Forget  the  kte  affianced  Bride, 

And  every  dear  love-token  ; 
Forget  the  hope  that  in  each  breast, 

Glow'd  like  a  smould'ring  ember  : 
But  still  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 

Remember  I  Oh  remember  ! 

Remember  all  the  vows  ye've  sworn 

At  holy  Becket's  altar  ; 
Remember  all  the  ills  ye've  borne, 

And  scorn'd  to  shrink  or  falter  ; 
Remember  erery  laurel'd  field. 

Which  saw  the  Crescent  waving  ; 
Remember  when  compell'd  to  yield, 

Uncounted  numbers  braving : 
Remember  these,  remember  too 

The  cause  ye  strive  for,  ever  ; 
The  Cross  !  the  Holy  Sepulchre  ! 

Forget,— forget  them  never  ! 

By  Him  who  in  that  Sepulchre 

Was  laid  in  Death's  cold  keeping  ; 

By  Her  who  bore,  who  rear'd  him,  Her 
Who  by  that  Cross  sat  weeping  ; 

By  those,  whose  blood  so  oft  has  cried 
Revenge  for  souls  unshriven  ! 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  SIS' 

By  those,  \vliose  sacred  precepts  guide 

The  path  to  yonder  Heaven  ! 
From  youth  to  age,  from  morn  to  eve, 

From  Spring-tide  to  December  ; 
The  Holy  Sepulchre  of  Christ, 

Remember  !  Oh  remember  ! 

"  MoNTULY  Magazine." 


A  SEREiNADE. 


Wake,  Lady  !  wake  !  the  midnight  Moon 
Sails  through  the  cloudless  skies  of  June  ; 
The  Stars  gaze  sweetly  on  the  stream, 
/  Which  in  the  brightness  of  their  beam, 
One  sheet  of  glory  lies  ; 
The  glow-worm  lends  its  little  light, 
And  all  that  's  beautiful  and  bright 
Is  shining  on  our  world  to-night, 
Save  thy  bright  eyes. 

Wake,  Lady  !  wake !  the  nightingale 
Tells  to  the  Moon  her  love-lorn  tale  ; 
Now  doth  the  brook  that  's  hush'd  by  day, 
As  through  the  vale  she  winds  her  way. 

In  murmurs  sweet  rejoice  ; 
The  leaves,  by  the  soft  night-wind  stirr'd, 
Are  whispering  many  a  gentle  word, 
And  all  Earth's  sweetest  sounds  are  heard. 

Save  thy  sweet  voice. 

Wake,  Lady  !  wake  !  thy  lover  waits,        ) 
Thy  steed  stands  saddled  at  the  gates  ; 
Here  is  a  garment  rich  and  rare. 
To  wrap  thee  from  the  cold  night-air ; 

Th"  appointed  hour  is  flown. 
Danger  and  doubt  have  vanish'd  quite, 
Our  way  before  lies  clear  and  right, 
And  all  is  ready  for  the  flight, 

Save  thou  alone ! 

Wake,  Lady  !  wake  !  I  have  a  wreatli 
Thy  broad  fair  brow  should  rise  beneath  : 

Rr 


314  MISCEIXANEOUS 

1  Jiavc  ling  that  must  not  sliinc 
On  any  finger,  liOvc  !  but  thine  ; 

I  've  kept  my  plighted  vow  ; 
Beneath  thy  casement  here  I  stand, 
To  lead  thee  by  thine  own  white  hand, 
Far  from  this  dull  and  captive  strand, 

But  where  art  thou  ? 

Wake,  Lady  !  wake  !  She  wakes  !  she  wakes  ; 
Through  the  green  mead  her  course  she  takes  ; 
And  now  her  lover's  arms  enfold 
A  prize  more  precious  far  than  gold, 

Blushing  like  morning's  ray  ; 
Now  mount  thy  palfrey.  Maiden  kind  I 
Nor  pause  to  cast  one  look  behind, 
JJut  swifter  than  the  viewless  wind, 

Away !  away ! 

"  Monthly  Magazine.'" 


SIMILITUDES. 


What  can  Love  be  liken'd  to  ? 
To  the  glitering,  fleeting  dew  ; 
To  Heaven's  bright  but  fading  bow  ; 
To  the  white,  but  melting  snow  ; 
To  fleeting  sounds,  and  viewless  air  ; 
To  all  that 's  sweet,  and  false,  and  fair. 

Whereto  can  we  liken  hope  ? 

To  the  arch  of  Heaven's  wide  cope. 

Where  birds  sing  sweetly,  but  are  flying ,' 

Where  days  shine  brightly,  but  are  dying  ; 

So  near,  that  we  behold  it  ever  ; 

So  far  that  we  shall  reach  it  never. 

What  can  beauty's  semblance  boast  ? 
The  rose  resembles  her  the  most, 
For  that 's  the  sweetest  among  flowers. 
The  brightest  gem  in  Flora's  bowers  : 
And  all  its  sweetness  soon  is  past, 
And  all  its  brightness  fades  at  last. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY.  31.5 

And  what  are  dreams,  tliat  liyht  nioht's  gloom  ? 

Doves  that,  like  Noah's,  (ro  and  conic,  ' 

To  teach  the  Soul  this  orb  of  clay 

Shall  not  its  prison  be  for  aye  ; 

That  Time's  dark  waves  shall  soon  subside, 

And  brighter  worlds  spread  far  and  wide. 

And  what 's  like  popular  renown. 
When  the  destroyer  it  doth  crown  ? 
The  honey  which  the  wild  bee's  power 
Wrings  from  the  bosom  of  tiie  flower  ; 
The  harmless  drones  no  honey  bring, 
They  win  the  sweets  who  wear  the  sting. 

And  what  is  like  ambition's  flight  ? 

The  eagle  on  his  airy  height  ; 

On  whose  broad  wings  the  sunbeam  plays. 

Though  from  the  world  they  hide  his  rays, 

Drinking  the  dew  before  it  falls. 

For  which  the  parch'd  Earth  vainly  calls. 

"  MoNTHiiY  Magazine." 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

Imitated  from  the  French  of  the  President  Henaut. 

Wherefore  regret  those  happy  days. 

When  Love  was  lord  the  wide  world  o'er  ? 
Our  hearts  from  Time's  dull  tomb  can  raise 
Those  days,  and  all  their  bliss  restore  : 
Let  us  love,  let  us  love,  and  again  behold 
The  happy  times  of  the  Age  of  Gold. 

The  flowers  still  flourish  in  our  fields, 

As  beautiful  as  then  they  were  : 
The  rose  the  same  sweet  odour  yelds  ; 
The  birds  the  same  bright  plumage  bear  : 
Let  us  love,  let  us  love,  and  again  behold 
The  happy  times  of  the  Age  of  Gold. 


3H>  MISCELLANEOUS 

Still  in  the  spring  the  nightingale 

Sings  in  the  llovver-eiiamcird  meads  ; 
And  still  the  brooks,  love's  same  sweet  tale, 
Whisper  amidst  the  answering  reeds. 

Let  us  love,  let  us  love,  and  again  behold 
The  happy  times  of  the  Age  of  Gold. 

Still  Zephyr  breathes,  and  still  doth  he 

For  Flora  feel  unchanging  love  ; 
And  still  doth  the  enamour'd  bee 
Among  the  fair  young  lilies  rove  : 

Let  us  love,  let  us  love,  and  again  behold 
TJie  happy  times  of  the  Age  of  Gold. 

"  Monthly  Magazink. 


QUESTIONS  ANSWERED. 

Oh  !  what  is  pleasure,  in  whose  chase, 
Life's  one  brief  day  is  made  a  race, 

Of  levity  and  lightness  ? 
A  Star,  to  gaze  on  whose  bright  crown, 
We  wait  until  the  sun  goes  down, 
And  find,  when  it  has  o'er  us  shone, 

No  warmth  in  all  its  brightness. 

And  what  is  friendship  ?  but  that  flower, 
Which  spreads  its  leaves  at  daylight's  hour, 

And  closes  them  at  eve  ; 
Opening  its  petals  to  the  light, 
Sweet  breathing,  while  the  sun  shines  bright, 
But  closed  to  those  who  'midst  the  night 

Of  doubt  and  darkness  grieve  ? 

And  what  is  fame  ?    The  smile  that  slays, 
The  cup  in  which  sweet  poison  plays. 

At  best,  the  flowery  wreath 
That 's  twined  around  the  victim's  head, 
When,  'midst  sweet  flowers  around  it  spread. 
And  harps'  and  timbrels'  sound,  'tis  led 

Melodiouslv  to  death. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY.  ^l' 

And  what  are  hopes  ?    Gay  butterflies. 
That  on  the  breath  of  f;incy  rise, 

Where'er  the  svinbeam  lures  them  ; 
For  ever,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Mocking  our  faint  steps  following, 
And  if  at  last  caught,  perishing 

In  the  grasp  that  secures  them. 

And  our  aftections,  what  are  they  ? 
Oh  !  blossoms  smiling  on  the  spray, 

All  bea^lty,  and  all  sweetness, 
But  which  the  canker  may  lay  bare, 
Or  rude  hands  from  the  branches  tear, 
Or  bhghting  winds  leave  withering  there. 

Sad  types  of  mortal  lleetness. 

And  what  is  life  itself  ?  A  sail, 
With  sometimes  an  auspicious  gale. 

With  some  bright  beams  surrounded  ; 
But  oftener  amidst  tempests  cast,     "• 
The  lowering  sky,  the  howling  blast. 
And,  'whelin'd  beneath  the  wave  at  last, 

Where  never  plummet  sounded. 

"  Monthly  Magazine." 


TIME'S  CHANGES. 


There  was  a  Child,  a  helpless  Child, 
Full  of  vain  fears  and  fancies  wild. 
That  often  wept>  and  sometimes  smiled, 

Upon  its  mother's  breast  ; 
Feebly  its  meanings  stammer'd  out, 
And  totter'd  tremblingly  about, 
And  knew  no  wider  world  without 

Its  little  home  of  rest. 

There  was  a  Boy,  a  light-heart  Boy, 
One  whom  no  troubles  could  annoy, 
Save  some  lost  sport,  or  shattcr'd  toy. 
Forgotten  in  an  hour ; 


318  MISCELLANEOUS 

No  dark  remembrance  troubled  him, 
No  future  fear  his  path  could  dim, 
But  joy  before  his  eyes  would  swim, 
And  hope  rise  hke  a  tower. 

There  was  a  Youth,  an  ardent  Youth, 
Full  of  hiijrh  promise,  courage,  truth, 
He  felt  no  scathe,  ho  knew  no  ruth. 

Save  Love's  sweet  wounds  alone 
He  thought  but  of  two  soft  blue  eyes. 
He  sought  no  gain  but  Beauty's  prize, 
And  sweeter  held  liove's  saddest  sisrhs. 

Than  Music's  softest  tone. 

There  was  a  Man,  a  wary  Man, 
Whose  bosom  nursed  full  many  a  plan 
For  making  life's  contracted  span 

A  path  of  gain  and  gold  ; 
And  how  to  sow,  and  how  to  reap. 
And  how  to  swell  his  shming  heap, 
And  how  the  wealth  acquired,  to  keep 

Secure  within  its  fold. 

There  was  an  old,  old,  gray-hair'd  one, 
On  whom  had  fourscore  winters  done 
Their  work  appointed,  and  had  spun 

His  thread  of  life  so  fine, 
That  scarce  its  thin  line  could  be  seen, 
And  with  the  slightest  touch,  I  ween, 
'Twould  be  as  it  had  never  been, 

And  leave  behind  no  sig-n. 


'O' 


And  who  were  they,  those  five,  whom  Fate 
Seem'd  as  strange  contrasts  to  create, 
That  each  might  in  his  diflferent  state 

The  others'  pathways  shun? 
I  tell  thee  that,  that  Infant  vain, 
That  Boy,  that  Youth,  that  Man  of  gain, 
That  Gray-beard,  who  did  roads  attain 

So  various, — They  were  One  ! 

"  Monthly  Magazine.' 


PROSE   AND    POETRF;  319 


SUCH  THINGS  WERE. 


I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  precious  to  me  ! 

SUAESPEARL. 


Such  things  were  !  such  things  were  ! 
False  but  precious,  brief  but  fair  ; 
The  eagle  with  the  bat  may  wed  ; 
The  hare  may  like  the  tortoise  tread  ; 
The  firmy  tribe  may  cleave  the  air  ; 
Ere  1  forget  that  such  tilings  were. 

Can  I  forget  my  native  glen,   -  - 

Far  from  the  sordid  haunts  of  men  ? 

The  willow-tree  before  the  door  ; 

The  flower  crown'd  porch,  the  humble  iloor  ; 

Pomp  came  not  nigh,  but  peace  dwelt  there  ; 

Can  I  forget  that  such  things  were  ? 

Can  I  forget  that  fair  wan  face, 
Smiling  with  such  a  mournful  grace  ? 
That  hand  whose  thrilling  touch  met  mine; 
Those  eyes  that  did  too  brightly  shine  ; 
And  that  low  grave,  so  sad,  yet  fair  ; 
Can  I  forget  that  such  things  were  ? 

I  would  not  change  these  tears,  these  sighs. 
For  all  Earth's  proudest  luxuries  ; 
1  would  not  with  my  sorrows  part. 
For  a  more  light,  but  colder  heart ; 
Nor  barter  for  pomp's  costlier  fare, 
The  memory  that  such  things  were. 

"Mo:nthly  Magazine." 


320  MliiCELLANEOUS 


THE  HEAllT. 

In  iraUatiou  of  Francis  Quarks. 

I  STOOD  in  the  sweet  Spring-time  by  the  side 

Of  a  fair  river,  rolling  wild  and  free; 
Winter's  cold  chain  had  melted  from  its  tide, 
And  on  it  reveli'd  in  its  joyous  pride. 
As  though  no  ice-touch  e'er  could  bid  it  hide  ; 

How  like,  my  fond,  vain  Heart !  how  like  to  thee  ! 

I  roam'd  its  banks  once  more,  'midst  Summer's  blaze, 

Onward  it  rush'd  to  th'  unfathoin'd  sea  ; 
Nor  stay'd  to  listen  to  the  sweet  bird's  lays, 
Nor  calm  and  clear,  imaged  the  Sun's  bright  rays, 
But  rush'd  along  its  channel's  devious  ways  ; 

How  like,  my  headstrong  Heart !  how  like  to  thee  ! 

I  stood  by  that  fair  stream's  green  banks  again, 

When  Autumn  winds  were  moaning  sullenly  ; 
The  dead,  sere  leaves  did  its  bright  waters  stain, 
And  heavy  pouring  floods  of  falling  rain, 
Swell'd  Its  full  breast,  and  drench'd  the  neighbouring  plain  ; 
How  like,  my  sad,  swoll'n  Heart !  how  like  to  thee ! 

I  stood  again  when  Winter  reign'd  severe, 

By  that  stream's  banks  which  cheerless  seem'd  to  me  : 
Its  once  swift  waves  were  frozen  cold,  and  clear. 
And  seem'd  as  they  an  enemy's  strength  could  bear, 
Yet  fail'd  beneath  the  foot  that  ventured  there  ; 

How  hke,  my  cold,  false  Heart !  how  like  to  thee ! 

And  shall  the  Seasons  only  when  they  show 

Their  darkest  hues,  my  Heart !   thy  mirror  be  ? 
Oh !  learn  Spring's  mildness.  Summer's  strength,  and  grow 
Mature  as  Autumn,  pure  as  Winter's  snow, 
So  shall  they,  when  their  features  brightest  glow, 
Be  most  like  thee,  my  heart !  be  most  like  thee ! 

''  Monthly  Magazine." 


FKOSE^   AND    I'OETUV.  321 


xMADONNA. 

Written  ou  seeing  a  Painting  by  Carlo  Doi.ci,  in  a  private  Collection  at 

Antwerp. 

Madonna  !  sweet  Madonna  !  I  could  ga/.e 
For  ever  on  that  heavenly  face  of  thine  ; 

Albeit  I  do  not  worship  as  1  praise, 

Or  bend  my  knee  devoutly  at  thy  shrine  : 
For  surely  there  was  something  of  divine, 

AVithin  the  wondrous  pencil  that  portray'd 
The  tender  softness  of  that  deep  blue  eyne. 

That  brow's  wan  beauty,  those  bright  ringlets'  brairt. 

And  the  sweet  Mother's  smile  upon  those  soft  lips  laid. 

Sure  they  who  worship  thee  will  be  forgiven, 
Nor  bear  the  penalty  of  that  fond  crime  ; 

For  in  that  face  is  less  of  Earth  than  Heaven  : 
Beauty  was  ever  worsliipp'd,  from  the  time 
That  fabled  Venus  from  the  Ocean's  slime 

Arose  ;  then  well  may  adoration  move 

Man's  breast,  for  one  of  beauty  more  sublime, 

Rome's  Goddess,  Queen  of  smiles,  far,  far  above, 

Whose  offspring  was  indeed  a  God,  a  God  of  Love ! 

Madonna  I  thine  own  rosy  hour  is  near, 

The  hour  of  calm,  of  softness,  and  of  prayer  : 

And  'tis  not  well  that  I  be  lingering  here. 
Lest  my  too  yielding  heart  that  error  share. 
Which  to  thy  shrine  doth  countless  votaries  bear ; 

And  Music  too  is  weaving  her  soft  spell, 
And  heavenly  fragrance  Hoats  upon  the  air, 

And  feelings  sad,  but  sweet,  my  bosom  swell, 

And  tears  are  in  my  eyes,  Madonna  !  Fare  thee  vi,e\i ! 

"  PAUTnENON." 


SONG. 

Come,  pledge,  pledge  the  cup  to  me,  Sweetheart ! 

Oh  !   pledge  the  cup  to  me  ! 
And  I  will  show  thee,  ere  we  part, 

How  Wine  resembles  thee. 

Ss 


S^Z  -MISCELLANEOUS 

And  first,  its  semblance  to  begin, 

I  tell  thee  frank  and  free. 
There  's  nought  on  earth  can  make  me  sing, 
Save  Wine,  Sweetheart !  and  thee  ! 

Then  pledge  the  cup  to  me,  Sweetheart  ? 

Oh  !   pledge  the  cup  to  me  ! 
And  I  will  show  thee  ere  we  part, 
How  Wine  resembles  thee. 

This  bottle  's  ruby  as  thy  cheek, 

And  sparkling  as  thine  eye  ; 
And,  like  thy  fond  heart,  should  it  break, 

Then  all  my  comforts  fly : 
And  when  its  blissful  tide  1  sip, 
That  tide  of  Love  and  Wit, 
Methinks  it  is  thine  own  sweet  lip, 
Which  mine  's  so  loath  to  quit. 

Then  pledge  the  cup  to  me,  Sweetlieart  -- 

Oh  !   pledge  the  cup  to  me  ! 
And  I  will  show  thee,  ere  we  part. 
How  Wine  resembles  thee. 

A  sadder  semblance  is  behind  ! 

Ah  !  Sweetheart,  thou  wilt  die  ! 
And  so  the  bottle's  tide,  we  find, 

Ebbs  low,  which  flow'd  so  high, 
Then, — as  I  '11  do  when  I  lose  thee, — 

My  grief  and  care  to  smother, 
I  'II  bless  its  memory,  and  flee 
For  comfort  to  another ! 

Then  pledge  the  cup  to  me.  Sweetheart  t 

Oh  !  pledge  the  cup  to  me ! 
And  let 's  drink  deeply,  ere  we  part, 
Since  Wine  resembles  thee. 
•  "New  European  Magazine."  182?-. 


STANZAS. 


Suns  will  set,  and  moons  will  wane, 
Yet  they  rise  and  wax  again  ; 
Trees,  that  Winter's  storms  subdue. 
Their  leafv  liverv  renew- 


PROSE  AND  poetry:  323 


Ebb  and  flow  is  Ocean's  lot ; 
But  man  lies  down  and  rises  not : 
Heaven  and  eartli  shall  pass  away, 
Ere  shall  wake  his  slumbering  clay ! 

Vessels  but  to  havens  steer  ; 
Patiis  denote  a  resting  near  ; 
Rivers  flow  into  the  main  ; 
Ice-falls  rest  upon  the  plain  : 
The  final  end  of  all  is  known  ; 
Man  to  darkness  goes  alone  : 
Cloud,  and  doubt,  and  mystery, 
Hide  his  future  destiny. 


Nile,  whose  waves  their  boundaries  burst, 
Slakes  the  torrid  desert's  thirst  ; 
Dews,  descending  on  the  hills, 
Life  in  Nature's  veins  instils  ; 
Showers,  that  on  the  parch'd  meads  fall, 
Tlieir  faded  loveliness  recall ; 
Man  alone  sheds  tears  of  pain, 
Weeps,  but  ever  weeps  in  vain. 

"Forget  Me  Not."  1826. 


THOUGHTS. 


i  SAW  a  glow-worm  on  a  grave, 

But  its  cold  light  could  not  scare 
Baser  worms,  who  came  to  crave 
A  share  in  the  banquet  there. 
And  I  thought  of  Fame,  can  it  lighten  the  glpom, 
Or  warm  the  chilliness  of  the  tomb  ? 

I  gazed  on  Saturn's  beautiful  ring, 
I  gazed  and  I  marvell'd  much  ; 
Shining  a  lovely  but  separate  thing, 
Round  the  orb  that  it  did  not  touch. 
And  I  thought  of  Hope,  that  shines  bright  and  high. 
Never  clo«e,  but  ever  nigh. 


324  MISCELLANEOUS 

I  saw  the  dew-drop,  gemininff  the  flowers, 

Beautiful  pearls  by  Aurora  strung  ; 
But  tlioy  vanisli'd  away  in  a  few  .-iliort  hours, 
As  o'er  them  the  Sun  his  lull  radiance  flunji. 
And  I  thought  of  Youth's  {generous  feelings,  how  soon 
They  're  parch  d  and  dried  up  in  Manhood's  noon. 

I  saw  a  tree  by  a  fair  river's  side, 

Put  forth  many  a  strong  and  vigorous  shoot, 

But  it  breathed  nought  but  pestilence  far  and  wide, 
~       And  it  poison 'd  the  stream,  that  bathed  its  root. 
And  I  thouglit  of  Ingratitude  piercing  the  breast, 
That  has  nursed  it  to  strength,  and  has  rock'd  it  to  rest. 

I  saw  the  leaves  gliding  down  the  brook, 

Swift  the  brook  ran,  and  bright  the  sun  burn'd  ; 
The  sere  and  the  verdant,  the  same  course  they  took. 
And  sped  gaily  and  fast,  but  they  never  return'd. 
And  I  thought  how  the  years  of  a  man  pass  away, 
Threescore  and  ten,  and  then,  where  are  they  ? 

"FoKGET  Me  Not."  1827. 


THE  COMET. 


O'er  the  blue  Heavens,  majestic  and  alone, 

He  treads,  as  treads  a  monarch  towards  his  throne  ; 

Darkness  her  leaden  sceptre  lifts  in  vain, 

Crush'd  and  consumed  beneath  his  fiery  wain  : 

And  Night's  swarth  cheek,  pain'd  by  his  gazing  eye, 

Blush  like  Aurora's,  as  he  passes  by. 

See  how  the  countless  hosts  of  Heaven  turn  pale ! 

The  blood-red  cheek  of  Mars  begins  to  fail ; 

Bright  Berenice's  shining  looks  grow  dim  ; 

Orion  changes  as  he  looks  on  him  ; 

And  the  stern  Gorgon  on  his  brightness  rests 

Her  stony  eyes,  and  lowers  her  snaky  crests ; 

In  breathless  wonder  hush'd,  the  starry  choir 

Listen,  in  silence,  to  his  one  bold  lyre  ; 

Save  when  its  lingering  echoes  they  ])rolong, 

And  tell  to  distant  worlds  the  wondrous  song ! 


PROSE  AND  POETRY.  325 

And  what  that  song  whose  numbers  fill  the  ears 

With  admiration  of  surrounding  spheres  ? 

"  Honour  and  adoration.  [)i)\v.r  and   praise, 

To  Him  who  tracks  the  ('oin-'t's  patliless  ways  ; 

Who  to  the  stars  has  iheir  bright  courst'S  given, 

And  to  the  Sun  appoints  hi-<  place  in  Heaven  ; 

And  rears  for  man  a  mansion  more  sublitne, 

Not  built  with  hands,  not  doom'd  to  stooj)  to  Time  ; 

W^hose  strong  foundations,  unini[)air'd  shall  stay, 

When  Sims,  and  Cstars,  and  Worlds,  and  all  things  pass 


a  way !" 


"  Friendship's  Offering!."  1326. 


STANZAS. 

SiTCCr  me  a  Lay  ! — not  of  knightly  feasts, 

Of  honour's  laurels,  or  pleasure's  sweets  ; 

Not  of  the  brightness  in  Beauty's  eye, 

Not  of  the  splendours  of  royalty  ; 

But  of  sorrow,  and  suffering,  and  death,  let  it  tell  : 

Of  the  owlet's  shriek,  and  ti.e  passing  bell ; 

Of  joys  that  have  been,  and  have  ceased  to  be. 

That  is  the  lay,  the  lay  for  me  ! 

'Twine  me  a  Wreath, — but  not  of  this  vinej 
Of  primrose,  or  myrtle,  or  eglantine  ; 
Let  not  the  fragrant  rose  breathe  there. 
Or  the  slender  Idy  her  white  bosum  bare  ; 
But  'twine  it  of  poppies,  so  dark  and  red, 
And  cypress,  the  garland  that  honours  the  dead  ; 
And  ivy,  and  nightshade,  and  rosemary. 
That  is  the  wreath,  the  wreath  for  me '.  ' 

Bring  me  a  Robe, — not  such  as  is  worn 
On  the  festal  eve,  or  the  bridal  morn  ; 
Yet  such  as  the  great  and  the  mighty  must  wear  ; 
Such  as  wra[)S  tin;  limbs  of  the  brave  and  the  fair  : 
Such  as  Sorrow  puts  on,  and  she  ceases  to  weep  ; 
Such  as  Pain  wraps  round  him,  and  sinks  to  sleep  : 
The  winding-sheet  my  garment  shall  be. 
That  is  the  robe,  the  robe  lor  mo : 


326  MISCELLANEOUS 

Oh  !  for  a  rest !— not  on  Beauty's  breast, 

Not  on  the  piUow  by  youii<,'  Hope  press'd ; 

Not  'neath  the  canopy  P()iii[>  has  spread  ; 

Not  in  the  tent  where  shrouds  Valour  his  head  ; 

Where  Grief  gnaws  not  the  heart,  though  the  worm  may 

feed  there  ; 
VVlicre  the  sod  weighs  it  down,  but  not  sorrow,  or  care  ; 
The  grave  !  the  grave !  the  home  of  the  free  ; 
That  is  the  rest,  the  rest  for  me ! 

•■  FKiEJMDsiiir's  Offering."  1827. 


WHAT  IS  LIFE? 


Tell  me  what  is  Life,  I  pray  ? 

'Tis  a  changing  April  day, 

Now  dull  as  March,  now  blithe  as  May  : 

A  httle  gloom,  a  little  light. 

Nought  certain  but  th'  approach  of  night 

At  morn  and  evening,  dew  appears. 

And  Life  begins  and  ends  with  tears. 

Yet  what  is  Life,  I  pray  thee  tell? 

'Tis  a  varied  sounding  bell, 

Now  a  triumph,  now  a  knell : 

At  first  it  rings  of  hope  and  pleasure. 

Then,  sorrow  mingles  in  the  measure, 

And  then  a  stern  and  solemn  toll, 

The  requiem  of  a  parted  soul. 

Yet  once  again  say  what  is  Life  ? 

'Tis  a  tale  with  wonder  rife, 

Pull  of  sorrow,  full  of  strife  : 

A  tale  that  first  enchants  the  ear, 

Then  fills  the  soul  with  grief  and  fear ; 

At  last  with  wo  bows  down  our  heads, 

And  sends  us  weeping  to  our  beds. 

Still  what  is  Life  ?     That  insect  vain, 
Lured  from  the  heaven  it  might  attain, 
To  wed  the  glow-worm  on  the  plain  : 


PROSE  AND  POETRY.  32T 

Wealth,  pleasure,  power  at  distance  seen. 
Shine  brilliant  as  the  glow-worm's  sheen, 
Life  weds  tliesc  seemingf  glorious  forms, 
And  finds  them  blind  and  grovelling  worms. 

Still  what  is  Life,  again  declare  ? 

Oh!   "tis  an  arch  of  promise  fair. 

Built  like  the  rainbow's,  in  the  air ; 

With  many  a  charm  that  's  quickly  past, 

Many  a  bright  hue,  but  none  that  last ; 

All  vanishing  away,  away, 

Ere  we  can  say,  how  fair  are  they  ! 

Yet  what  is  Life  ?    A  t-aper's  light, 
That  feebly  glimmers  through  the  night. 
And  soon  is  quench'd  in  darkness  quite  : 
Each  wind  that  spreads  its  flame  but  hastes  it, 
Each  touch  that  trims  its  splendour,  wastes  it ; 
And  brighter  as  its  lustre  plays, 
Soon  its  fragile  frame  decays. 

'^  Feiendship's  Offeking."   1827. 


TIME. 

I  SAW  a  child  whose  youthful  cheek 

Glow'd  with  health's  golden  bloom. 
And  light  did  from  his  young  eyes  break. 

And  his  sweet  face  illume  : 
The  song  he  sang  was  "  Dance  !  prepare 

To  tread  a  measure  light !" 
And  his  hand  held  a  mirror,  where  • 

The  sun  was  imaged  bright : 
On  wings  as  swift  as  love's  he  flew, 

Blushing  like  mornnig's  prime  ; 
And  flowers  across  his  path  he  threw, 

And  that  child's  name  was  Time. 

1  saw  a  man,  whose  ample  brow 
Was  furrow'd  deep  with  care  ; 

And  now  despair,  and  rapture  now, 
I3y  turns  were  pictured  there  : 


328  MISCELLANEOUS 

The  song  ha  sang  was  "  Heap  and  lioaru, 

And  scalo  Ambition's  lioiglit," 
And  his  hand  grasp'd  a  kccu-cdged  sword 

Of  majesty  and  night. 
Around  him  tlnong'ti  a  numerous  train, 

WeaUh,  I'^ime,  and  Power  subhme  : 
While  his  breast  sweli'd  with  fancies  vain, 

And  his  name  too  was  Time. 

I  saw  an  aged,  shrivell'd  form, 

With  hollow  eyes  and  blind  ; 
He  crouched  beneath  the  pelting  storm, 

And  shook  with  every  wind. 
His  song  was  "  Life's  fair  tree  is  fell'd, 

It  yields  before  the  blast  ;" 
And  his  lean  hand  an  hourglass  held. 

Whose  sands  were  ebbing  fast. 
Across  his  path  dark  phantoms  roved, 

Of  Age,  and  Want,  and  Crime, 
His  wings  seem'd  dipt,  yet  swift  he  moved, 

And  still  his  name  was  Time. 

Oh  !  how  Time  changes  !  and  man  too, 

Doth  with  the  wizard  change  ; 
Borrow  his  every  form  and  hue, 

And  in  his  footsteps  range  : 
And  now  his  mirror,  now  his  sword, 

And  now  his  hourglass  seize  : 
Thou  fool !  why  is  tliy  mind  still  stored 

With  trifles  such  as  these  ? 
Spurn  this  world  for  a  better  home, 

Where  his  wings  cannot  soar  ; 
Where  chance  and  change  shall  never  come, 

And  Time  shall  be  no  more  ! 

"  Friendship's  Offering."  1828. 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 


Mourn  not,  sweet  maid,  and  do  not  try 

To  rob  me  of  my  sorrow  ; 
it  is  the  only  friend  whom  1 
Have  left,  'midst  my  captivity, 

To  bid  my  heart  good  morrow. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY.  ,  32t^ 

1  would  not  chase  him  from  my  heart, 

For  he  is  Love's  own  brother  : 
And  each  has  learn'd  his  fellow's  part 
So  aptly,  that  'tis  no  mean  art 

To  know  one  from  the  other. 

Thus  Love  will  fold  his  arms,  and  moan, 

And  sigh,  and  weep  like  Sorrow  ; 
And  Sorrow  has  caught  Love's  soft  tone, 
And  mix'd  his  arrows  with  his  own, 

And  learn'd  his  smile  to  borrow. 

Only  one  mark  of  difference  they 

Preserve,  which  leaves  them  never  ; 
Young  Love  has  wings,  and  flies  away, 
While  Sorrow,  once  received,  will  stay, 

The  soul's  sad  guest  for  ever. 

"  Fkiendship's  Offi^ino."  1829. 


THE  NATAL  STAR. 

A  Scene  from  a  Manuscript  Drama: 
Savona  on  a  Couch.     Rinaldo  attending  him. 

Savona.  Dear  Rinaldo ! 

To  thee  these  seem  strange  fancies,  but  I  tell  thee, 
There  's  not  a  pulse  beats  in  the  human  frame, 
That  is  not  govern'd  by  the  stars  above  us  ; 
The  blood  that  fills  our  veins,  in  all  its  ebb 
And  flow  is  sway'd  by  them,  as  certainly 
As  are  the  restless  tides  of  the  salt  sea 
By  the  resplendent  moon  ;  and  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  mother's  eye  gazed  not  more  steadfastly 
On  thee,  than  did  the  star  that  rules  thy  fate, 
Showering  upon  thy  head  an  influence, 
Malignant  or  benign. 

Rinaldo.  Nay,  nay,  Savona, 

These  are  but  dreams:  the  reveries  of  gray-beards, 
And  curious  schoolmen. 

Tt 


.'530  MISCELLANEOUS 

Savona.  Pr'ythee,  my  Rinaldo, 

Unclose  the  casement,  tliat  my  eyes  may  once,. 
If  only  once,  again  read  in  that  volume, 
Whose  treasured  wisdom  is  far,  far  beyond 
All  that  the  painful  industry  of  man 
Heaps  on  his  loaded  shelves. 

[RiNAL»o  opens  the  casement. 

There,  there  they  shine  1 
Oh  !  ye  bright  partners  of  my  midnight  watches ! 
Ye  glorious  torches,  by  whose  heavenly  light 
We  read  the  volume  of  futurity  ! 
Ye  golden  sanctuaries  of  knowledge  safe 
And  inaccessible,  'midst  all  the  change. 
The  ebb  and  flow  of  mortal  accident ! 
When  the  vast  deluge  spread  its  mighty  wings 
Over  the  earth,  ye  track'd  a  path  of  light 
On  the  abyss  o'er  which  the  hallow'd  ark 
Floated  in  safety  ;   when  proud  Babel  fell, 
And  accent  strange  to  human  ears  were  dropt 
Prom  human  lips,  ye  spake  one  language  still, 
And  told  the  same  bright  tale  ;   when  Omar  gave 
The  Alexandrian  wonder  to  the  flames, 
Ye  spread  your  ample  volume  o'er  his  head 
In  broad  derision  ;  bidding  him  advance   . 
His  torches,  and  add  fuel  to  his  pile, 
To  shrivel  up  your  shining  leaves,  and  melt 
The  glittering  clasps  of  gold  that  guarded  them  I 

Rinaldo.  Savona,  cneck  this  ardour  ;  your  weak  frame 
Will  sink  beneath  it. 

Savona.  Nay,  my  friend,  'tis  vain. 

'Tis  written  yonder.     When  the  hand  of  man 
Can  tear  the  shining  planets  from  their  spheres, 
Then  may  he  work  my  cure. 

Rinaldo.  I  behold  nought 

But  a  bright  starry  night  ;  betokening 
Aught  but  disease  and  death. 

Savona.  Seest  thou  yon  cluster 

Of  stars,  that  glitter  right  above  that  clump 
Of  stately  pines  ? 

Rinaldo.  I  mark  it  steadfastly. 

Savona.  And  mark'stthou  in  the  midst  one  Star,  that  seem* 
The  centre  of  the  group  ? 

Rinaldo.  Yes  ;  'tis  a  Star 

Of  a  peculiar  brightness,  soft  and  mild 


PKOSE  AND  POETRY.  Sol 

Its  liglit,  yet  beautiful  as  [lesper's,  when 

The  rest  fade  from  him  ;  yet  the  neighbouring  orbs, 

Larger,  and  all  of  gloomier  disks,  appear 

T'  overwhelm  its  beams  ;   while  stationed  as  it  is, 

In  the  most  stormy  point  of  heaven,  e'en  now 

On  this  bright  night,  light  mists  and  vapours  battle. 

As  'twere  around  its  head  ;  and  one  black  cloud 

Comes  saihng  towards  it  from  the  north,  and  soon 

Will  blot  it  from  my  sight. 

Sarona.  There  !  there,  Rinaldo  ! 

Hast  thou  not  in  those  few  unconscious  words, 
Summ'd  up  Savona's  life  ?     Was  I  not  born 
With  shining  hopes,  wealth,  friends,  and, — so 
The  world  said, — talents  ?     Did  not  envious  Fate 
Cross  my  bright  path  ?  malignant  foes,  false  friends, 
Untoward  accident,  and  blighted  love, 
llain  misery  on  my  head  ?  and  am  I  not, 
Now,  in  the  noontide  of  my  life,  Rinaldo, 
Stretch'd  with  a  broken  heart,  and  faltering  limbb, 
Upon  a  bed  of  grief,  while,  rapidly, 
Death  like  a  monster,  lured  from  far,  comes  on 
To  grapple  with  his  prey  1 

Rinaldo.  Alas  1   alas  ! 

Sorrow,  indeed,  has  mingled  in  your  cup 
Of  Life,  but  sure  your  ills  were  not  so  strangely 
Piled  higher  than  the  common  lot  of  man. 
To  weigh  you  down  thus  soon.  ^ 

Savona.  True,  my  Rinaldo  ; 

True,  not  so  strange  ;  so  very  strange.     Crush'd  hopes, 
Blighted  affections,  benefits  forgot, 
A  broken  heart,  and  an  untimely  grave, 
These  form  no  wondrous  tale  :  'tis  trite  and  common, 
The  lot  of  many,  most  of  all,  of  those 
Who  learn  to  crowd  into  a  few  brief  years 
Ages  of  feeling  ;  as  the  o'ercharg'd  pulse 
Throbs  high,  and  throbs  no  more  1 

Rinaldo.  Dear  friend,  I  hoped 

Your  heart  had  mastered  its  unquiet  inmates. 
I  've  met  you  at  the  revel,  and  the  dance. 
And  seen  your  brow  wear  that  gay  look,  which  charm'd 
All  hearts  in  former  times. 

Havana.  Even  so,  Rinaldo  ; 

Jjut  often,  often  is  the  visage  masqucd 
In  smiles  and  revelry,  when  the  heart's  wounds 
Rankle  the  sorest ;  and,  when  we  go  forth 

I 


SS'Z  MISCELLAKEOU& 

Into  tlic  cold  and  smiling  world,  and  seem 

The  gayest  of  the  gay,  vvc  do  but  bear 

Our  sorrows  with  us,  as  the  stricken  deer 

Bounds  on,  through  fields  and  thicket,  with  the  arro\'v 

Tiiat  wounds  it,  in  its  side. 

liinaldo.  Dear  friend,  cheer  up  I 

Your  malady  is  slight ;  friends,  and  new  scenes, 
And  hopes  revived,  and  trustier,  truer  joys, 
Will  soon  work  wonders.     Think 'st  not  so,  Savona  ? 

Savona.  Look  at  the  Star !  look  at  the  Star,  Rinaldo  ! 

Rinaldo.  Ob  Heaven  !  it  does,  indeed,  wane,  and  grow  paie  1 
And  that  black  cloud  is  near  approaching  it ! 
But  this  is  idle,  and  but  feeds  the  fancies 
That  prey  upon  your  health.      I  '11  close  the  casement. 

Savona.  Oh  !  no,  no,  no  !  for  Heaven's  sweet  sake,  forbear  I 
That  Star  gazed  on  my  birth,  and  on  that  Star 
My  dying  eyes  shall  gaze. 

Rinaldo.  But  not  to-night, 

I  hope,  Savona.     Lend  me  thy  hand.     Ha  ! 
■'Tis  strangely  hot  and  feverish  ;  but  kind  care, 
And  skill  will  work  its  cure.     And  yet  I  like  not 
That  black  and  ominous  cloud.     Now  it  comes  nearer  . 
It  touches  the  Orb's  disk.     Thank  Heaven  I  his  hand 
Is  cooler  now.     It  has  o'erwhelm'd  the  Star 
In  its  black  mantle  !     Why  am  I  thus  moved  ? 
I  have  no  faith  in  these  things,  yet  I  dare  not 
Speak  or  look  at  him.     Ha  ;  the  cloud  has  pass'd 
The  bright  bland  orb  emerges  !     Dear  Savona  ! 
Laugh  at  your  idle  fears  :   your  star  has  now 
'Scaped  all  its  ills. 

[Turns  towards  hwu 
Oh  God  !  so  has  his  Spirit ! 
Cold,  cold  indeed  his  hand  !  Oh  !  but  to  feel 
Once  more  that  feverish  glow  I  started  from. 
Savona  !  dear  Savona ! — dead,  dead,  dead  ! 

•'  HOMMAGE   AUX    DaMES."    1825 


PROSE  AND  poetry:  33 


L'   AMORE    DOMINATORE. 

Who  is  the  Monarch  so  mii^hty  and  bright, 
Who  comes  triumphing  on  in  Ins  chariot  of  light? 
The  sceptre  he  be;irs  is  more  rich  to  behold, 
Than  Samarcand's  pearls,  or  Potosi's  gold  ; 
His  coronal  glitters  with  many  a  }?»^m, 
As  though  Beauty's  bright  eyes  form'd  his  diadem, 
And  his  waving  wings  round  his  hght  form  play, 
Like  the  rambow's  hues  on  a  Siniuner's  day. 

'Tis  Love  !  young  Love,  th'  immortal  boy, 
The  child  of  Beauty   the  parent  of  Joy  ; 
Even  Gods  bow  down  to  the  Lord  of  hearts  ; 
Jove's  thunder  is  feebler  than  Cupid's  darts  ; 
And  the  sword  of  Mars,  and  the  sceptre  of  Dis, 
Have  in  turns  been  conquer'd  and  sway'd  by  his  : 
Then  lift  high  each  voice,  and  set  wide  each  gate, 
To  welcome  young  Love  to  his  throne  of  state. 

That  Throne  is  thy  heart,  Oh  Mistress  mine ! 

Dress  it  in  smiles  from  thine  own  bright  eyne  ; 

The  thousands  that  welcome  young  Love  to  his  goal ; 

Are  the  wishes  and  passiofiate  hopes  of  my  Soul  ; 

The  wings  that  he  flies  on,  Oh  I  this  sweet  kiss, 

Dearest !  is  one,  and  the  other  is  this  ; 

And  those  soft  lips  are  (he  rosy  gate 

That  leads  young  Love  to  his  throne  of  state. 

"  HOMMAUE  AUX  DaMES,"    182&. 


n 


GOODRICH   CASTLE. 

Thou  sylvan  Wye,  since  last  my  feet 
Wander'd  along  thy  margin  sweet, 
I  've  gazed  on  many  a  far-famed  stream  ; 
Have  seen  the  Loire's  bright  waters  gleam  ; 
Seen  Arveron  from  his  wild  source  gush  ; 
The  dull  Scheldt  creep,  the  swift  Rhone  rush  ; 
And  Arve,  the  proud  Alps'  froward  child, 
Run  murmuring  through  its  regions  wild  : 


d34  MISCELLANEOUS 

But  none  to  my  delighted  eye, 
Seem'd  lovelier  than  my  own  sweet  Wye  : 
Through  meads  of  living  verdure  driven, 
Tvvixt  hills  that  seem  Earlirs  links  to  Heaven  , 
With  sweetest  odours  breathing  round, 
With  every  woodland  glory  crown'd 
And  skies  of  such  Cerulean  hue, 
A  veil  of  such  transparent  blue, 
That  God's  own  eye  seems  gazing  through. 

And  thou,  proud  Goodrich  !  changed  and  worn, 

By  Time,  and  war,  and  tempest  torn  ; 

Still  stand'st  thou  by  that  lovely  stream, — 

Though  past  thy  glory  like  a  dream, — 

Stand'st  like  a  monitor,  to  say, 

How  Nature  hves  'midst  Art's  decay  ; 

Or,  like  a  Spectre,  haunting  yet 

The  spot  where  all  its  joys  were  set. 

Time-hallow'd  pile  !  no  more,  no  more, 
Thou  hear'st  the  hostile  cannon  roar  ; 
No  more  bold  knights  thy  drawbridge  pace. 
To  battle,  tournament,  or  chase  ; 
No  more  the  valiant  man  thy  towers  ; 
No  more  the  lovely  grace  thy  bowers  ; 
Nor  bright  eyes  smile  o'er  the  gaitar  : 
Nor  the  trump  stirs  bold  hearts  to  war. 

The  falling  meteor  o'er  thee  shoots, 
The  dull  owl  in  thy  chambers  hoots  ; 
Now  doth  the  creeping  ivy  twine, 
Where  once  bloom'd  rose  and  eglantine  ; 
And  there,  where  once  in  rich  array 
Met  lords,  and  knights,  and  ladies  gay, 
The  bat  is  clinging  to  the  walls, 
And  the  fox  nestles  in  thy  halls. 

"  Ltterauy  SouvE^'IR."   1827. 


PROSE    AND    POETRY.  o35 

THE  CAPTIVE'S    SONG. 

Pharaphrased  from  the  \31th  Psalm. 

We  sat  us  down  by  Babel's  streams, 

And  dreamt  soul-sadd'ning  Memory's  dreams  ; 

And  dark  thoughts  o'er  our  spirits  crept 

Of  Sion,  and  we  wept,  we  wept ! 

Our  Harps  upon  the  willows  hung, 

Silent,  and  tuneless,  and  unstrung  ; 

For  they  who  wrought  our  |»ains  and  wrongs, 

Ask'd  us  for  Sion's  pleasant  Songs. 

How  shall  we  sing  Jehovah's  praise 
To  those  who  Baals  altars  rdi>-e  ? 
How  warble  Judah's  free-born  hymns, 
Witli  Babel's  fetters  on  our  limbs  ? 
How  chant  thy  lays,  dear  Father-land  ' 
To  strangers  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
Ah  no  !   we  '11  bear  griefs  keenest  sting, 
But  dare  not  Sion's  anthems  sing. 


'is' 


Place  us  where  Sharon's  roses  blow, 
Place  us  where  Siloe's  waters  flow  ; 
Place  us  on  Lebanon,  that  waves 
Its  cedars  o'er  our  Fathers'  graves  ; 
Place  us  upon  that  holy  iiiount. 
Where  stands  the  Temple,  gleams  the  fount ; 
Then  l.>ve  and  joy  shall  loose  our  tongues 
To  warble  Sion's  pleasant  songs. 

If  r  should  e'er,  Earth's  brightest  gem  ! 
Forget  thee.  Oh  Jerusalem  ! 
May  my  rieht  hand  forget  its  skill 
To  wake  the  slumbering  lyre  at  will : 
If  from  my  heart,  e'en  when  most  gay. 
Thine  image  e'er  should  fade  away, 
May  my  tongue  rest  within  my  head, 
Mute  as  the  voices  of  the  dead. 

Remember,  Oh  !  remember.  Lord  1 
in  that  day  Edom's  sons  abhorr'd; 
When  once  again  o'er  Salem's  towers, 
The  Sun  of  jov  his  radiance  pours. 


386  MISCELLANEOUS 

Forget  not  them,  whose  hateful  cry 
Rose  loud  and  fiend-like  to  the  sky  : 
"  Be  that  unhallo\v'<l  city  rrush'd ! 
Raze,  raze  it  even  to  the  dust!" 

Daughter  of  Babylon  !  the  hour 
Is  cominjif,  that  shall  bow  thy  power  ; 
The  Persian  sword  shall  make  thee  groan, 
The  Mede  shall  fill  Belshazzar's  throne  ; 
Blest  siiall  he  be  who  bids  thee  sip 
The  cup  thou  hcld'st  to  Salem's  lip  ; 
And  mocks  thee,  weepuig  o'er  the  stones 
Red  with  thy  chddren's  mangled  bones. 

"Amulet."  1827. 


STANZAS. 


Like  the  young  Spring-buds  sweet  and  bright. 
And  like  the  lark,  and  like  the  light, 
And  like  the  wind,  and  like  ihe  wave. 
E'en  such  is  Hope  : — buds  find  a  grave, 
The  lark  gives  place  unto  the  owl, 
The  light  must  yield  to  darkness  foul, 
The  winds  are  fickle,  waves  betray, 
And  Hope  is  falser  far  than  they. 

And  like  the  dew  upon  the  thorn, 
And  like  the  blushful  break  of  morn, 
And  like  a  vessel  harbour'd  well, 
And  like  a  song,  and  like  a  spell. 
E'en  such  is  man  : — the  dew  exhales, 
The  morning's  past,  the  vessel  sails, 
The  song  is  sweet,  but  swiftly  flies, 
The  spell  is  broken, — Man  he  dies ! 

And  like  the  azure  skies  of  June, 
And  like  the  sun,  and  like  the  moon, 
And  like  a  bowl,  and  like  a  smile, 
And  like  a  taper's  burning  pile, 
E'en  such  is  Life  :  — the  changed  sky  rains, 
The  sun  goes  down,  the  pale  moon  wanes, 
The  bowl  is  drain'd,  that  smile  's  thelast, 
The  taper  's  spent,  and  Life  is  past ! 

"AMUI.ET."  1828. 


FROSE    AND    POKTRV.  ;337 


MOUNT  CARMEL. 

.4  Dramatic  Sketch  from  Scripture  Historij. 

Pekso.vs  Represented. 

The  High  Priest  or  Baal. 
Elijah,  the  Prophet. 
Ketjben,  an  Israelite. 
MiKiAM,  his  Sister. 

Attendants  on  Elijah,  Priests,  Crowd,  t^n-. 
ScEKE,  Mount  Carmel.     Tisie,  near  Sunset. 

Reub.  Nay,  Sister,  do  not  doubt. 
Our  God  will  manifest  his  power,  and  shame 
Yon  bold  idolaters. 

Mir.  I  hope,  yet  fear  ; 

For  they  are  many,  they  are  mighty,  and- 


Reuh.  See,  see,  the  lligii  Priest  doth  approach  the  Prophet. 

High  P.   Where  is  thy  God  ?     Wliat  eye  liath  ever  gazed 
Upon  his  face  ?     What  ear  hath  heard  his  voice  ? 
If  there  be  such  a  one,  ho  loves  to  dwell 
In  darkness  and  obscurity  ;  he  fears 
To  meet  tlie  gaze  of  those  who  worship  him, 
And,  in  his  proud  invisibility. 
Laughs  at  their  lowly  orisons.     Not  such 
Is  he  whom  we  adore.     Behold  him  there  1 

[Pointing  to  the  Sun, 
Baal !  the  great,  the  bright,  the  wonderful ! 
See  how  he  traverses  the  boundless  Heaven, 
The  azure  place  of  his  sovereignty  ; 
Answering  our  prayers  with  treasures  of  rich  light, 
Bidding  the  world  on  which  we  dwell,  bring  forth 
Herbs,  fruits,  and  flowers,  to  gladden  and  support 
His  worshippers.     From  morn  to  eve,  his  eye, 
With  an  untiring  love,  is  fixed  on  us  ; 
And  when  our  feeble  senses  seek  repose. 
Then  doth  he  kindly  veil  his  burning  beams. 
And  bid  his  silver  regent  bathe  our  lids 
In  a  pure  flood  of  milder,  gentler  light ; 


338  MISCELLANEOUS 

While  sweet  dreams  glad  our  spirits,  or  deep  sleep 
Rocks  them  to  rest  unbroken. 

Mir.  Look,  my  Brother ' 

Reuben,  it  is  indeed  a  glorious  orb  I 
How  like  a  God  he  walks  the  fields  of  Heaven  ; 
Brother,  I  feur  that  he  whom  we  adore 
Is  not  so  great  as  he  is. 

Rciib.  Peace,  doubting  girl  ; 

The  holy  Prophet  speaks. 

Elijah,  Fond,  impious  man  I 

My  (iod  is  every  where !  is  seen  and  heard 
In  all  created  things  !     I  see  his  power 
And  majesty  in  that  resplendent  orb, 
The  work  of  his  own  hand,  whieh  ye  adore 
In  Ignorance  and  sin  ;  on  which  I  gaze 
With  wond<  r  and  with  humble  thankfulness. 
I  see  his  wratii  and  terror  in  the  b!ind, 
Cold  unbelief,  which  he  permits  to  seal 
Your  senses  and  your  hearts  ;   and  I  shall  soon 
Behold  his  goodness,  and  his  love  to  tliose, 
Who  keep  th(;ir  Faith  unspotted  and  unchnnged, 
When,  at  my  prayer,  his  fire  from  Heaven  shall  kindle 
The  offering  which  I  place  upon  his  shrine. 
But  wherefore  linger  ye  ?     Did  ye  not  say 
That  ye  and  I  should  each  unto  our  Gods 
Raise  altars,  and  bring  offerings  ;  and  whose  God 
Answer'd  by  firefr<.m  Heaven,  should  be  acknowledged 
The  Lord  above  all  Lord?;,  and  God  indeed  ? 
Have  ye  not  call'd  upon  your  God  since  noon, 
And  has  he  answered  ?     Is  not  his  bright  orb 
Fast  sinking  in  the  west,  and  will  he  not 
Soon  beam  his  last  farewell  ?     'Tis  now  my  turn 
To  try  the  power  and  goodness  of  the  God 
Whom  I  adore. 

High  P.  Not  yet,  for  Baal  is  angry 

At  our  imperfect  rites,  and  he  requires 
To  be  again  invoked. 

Croivd.  Baal  requires 

To  be  again  invoked. 

[Here  the  Priests  of  Bcial  range  themselves  in  a  circle.,  and 
chant  the  following  incantation ;  dancing  round  the  altar  at 
the  end  of  each  stanza.,  and  cutting  themselves: with  knive,') 
and  lancets  as  they  chant  the  last. 


^ 


PROSE    AND    POETRV.  339 

From  thy  bright  throne,  bow  thine  ear, 
Biial !   Biial !  hear  us,  hear  I 
Thou  who  mak'st  the  rosy  day. 
Thou  who  lend'st  the  lunar  ray. 
Thou,  at  whom  the  stars  grow  pale. 
Thou,  who  gildest  mount  and  vale, 
From  (hv  briiiht  throne,  bow  thine  ear. 
Baal !  Baal !  hear  us,  hear ! 

Thou,  to  whom  the  highest  Heaven 
For  thy  throne  of  power  is  given  : 
Thou,  who  mak'st  the  mighty  sea 
The  mirror  of  thy  brightness  be  : 
Thou,  who  bidd'st  th'  el?e  barren  earth, 
Give  wealth,  and  food,  and  beauty  birth ; 
From  tliy  bright  throne,  bow  thine  ear, 
Biial !  Biial !  hear  us,  hear : 

Now  thine  altar  we  array ;      - 
Now  the  sacrifice  we  slay : 
Now  his  bleeding  limbs  recline, 
Offerings  on  thy  hallow'd  shrme  ; 
Now  with  lancet  and  with  knife, 
We  ope  our  own  warm  tides  of  life. 
From  thy  bright  throne,  bow  thme  ear, 
Baal'  Baul !  hear  us,  hear ! 

[Dunng  this  invocation,  the  sun  gradually  siwi*  below  the 
horizon.         -         ' 

High  P.  Wo  !  wo  !  wo  ! 

Leave  us  not,  Biial !  leave  us  not  unanswer'd  : — 
Unanswer'd  and  in  darkness  ! 

Crowd.  Wo!   wo!  wo! 

Leave  us  not,  Biial ! 

Elijah.  Ay  !  howl  on,  howl  on  ! 

And  call  upon  your  God.     Will  he  not  answer  ? 
Sleeps  he,  or  is  he  weary,  or  departed 
On  some  far  journey,  that  he  hears  you  not  ? 
Are  ye  not  her'>,  tour  hundred  priests  of  Biial! 
And  yet  your  many  voices  cannot  pierce 
His  dull,  cold  car  ?     How,  therefore,  can  I  hope, 
.Tehovah's  one  poor  Prophet,  that  with  these 
My  few  attendants,  I  can  make  him  bow 
His  ear  to  my  complaints.     Yet  I  '11  essay  it. 


340  MISCELLANEOUS 

[  To  his  attendants. 
Now  what  1  bid  perform  ;  and  answer  ye 
The  questions  1  propound. 

Let  twelve  stones  the  numbers  tell 

Of  the  tribes  of  Israel ; 

Build  with  them  an  altar  straight 

O 

To  our  God,  the  good,  the  great : 
Quickly  answer  every  one  ; 
Is  it  done  ? 
Aiten.  'Tis  done  !   'tis  done  ! 

Elijah.     Dig  a  trench  the  altar  round  ; 
On  the  altar  be  there  found 
Piles  of  wood  ;  the  bullock  slay  ; 
And  on  the  wood  his  carcass  lay, 
In  bleeding  fragments,  one  by  one; 
Is  it  done  I 
Atten.  'Tis  done  !   'tia  done  ! 

Elijah.     Fill  four  barrels  from  the  rill, 

That  streams  down  Carmel's  holy  hill ; 
Pour  the  water,  once,  twice,  thrice, 
On  the  wood  and  sacrifice, 
Till  the  trenches  over  run  ; 
Is  it  done  ? 
Atten.  'Tis  done  !  'tis  done  ! 

Elijah.     Then  now,  most  righteous  God,  what  wait  we  for  ■' 
In  humbleness,  and  reverence  have  we  set 
Our  offerings  on  thine  altar.     Oh  !  send  down 
Thy  fire  from  Heaven  to  kindle,  and  accept  them  ; 
So  shall  thine  inward  fire  shine  in  the  hearts 
Of  Israel  gone  astray,  lost  in  the  night 
Of  dark  idolatry,  and  they  shall  know 
That  Thou  art  Lord  of  Lords !  the  God  of  Heaven  ! 

[  The  whole  scene  becomes  suddenly  illuminated.,  and  a  Jlame 
descending  on  the  altar.,  consumes  the  sacrifice.,  and  dries 
up  the  water  in  the  trenches. 

Mir.     Wonderful !  wonderful !   Jehovah  !  thou 
Art  God  indeed  I    thou  art  the  Lord  of  Lords  ! 

Crowd.     Sing,  sing  Jehovah's  praise,  for  he  is  God  ! 
He  is  the  Lord  of  Lords,  who  reigns  in  Heaven  ! 

Reub.     See,  see.  Heaven  opens  !  and  the  sacred  fire 
Consumes  the  offering  !  it  is  as  though 
God  stretch'd  his  own  right  arm  down  to  the  earth 
To  accept  the  service  of  his  worshippers. 


PUOSE    AND    POETRY.  oil 

Elijah.     The  trenches  are  dried  up  ;  the  fire  returns 
Into  its  native  Heaven.     That  last  red  streak 
Just  ghmmers  faintly  in  the  v/est,  and  now 
'Tis  gone,  'tis  past !  and  hark  !  that  fearful  peal ! 

[  Thunder  is  heard. 
It  is  Jehovah  speaks  !  answer  him.     Say 
•■  Thou,  thou  art  Lord  of  Lords  !  the  God  of  Heaven  '."' 

Mir.     Wonderful,  wonderful !  Jehovah,  thou 
Art  God  indeed  I 

CroTvd.     Sing,  sing  Jehovah's  praise,  for  he  is  God  ' 
He  is  the  Lord  of  Lords,  who  reigns  in  Heaven  ! 

High  P.     Away!  away!    The  Evil  One  prevails! 
The  foe  of  Baal ! 

[Elijah  and  the  crowd  kneel  before  the  altar ;  and  the  Priests 
of  Baal  rush  out  tumultuoushj^  as  the  scene  closes. 

"  Bijou."  1828. 


A  ROYAL  REQUIEM. 


Shed  the  fast-falling  tear  o'er  the  tomb  of  the  brave, 

Mourn,  mourn  for  the  offspring  of  kings ! 
The  sword  of  the  valiant  is  sheathed  in  the  grave, 
The  son  of  the  mighty  lies  low  as  the  slave, 
And  the  warm  heart  of  honour  is  cold  as  the  wave. 

And  still  as  the  ice-fetter'd  springs. 

Earth's  splendours  and  pomps,  like  the  bright  skies  of  June, 

Too  often  are  dimni'd  by  a  cloud  ; 
Like  the  mild-seeming  halo,  at  Night's  brilliant  noon, 
That,  diadem  like,  gems  the  orb  of  the  Moon, 
They  oft  but  betoken  the  storm  that  will  soon 

That  orb  and  its  brilhancy  shroud. 

Then  pour  the  lament  o'er  the  tomb  of  the  brave, 

Let  us  mourn  for  the  offspring  of  kings  ; 
For  sheath'd  is  the  sword  that  was  bared  for  the  right, 
Death-cold  is  the  heart  that  beat  warmly  and  light. 
And  the  spirit  has  Hed  to  a  mansion  more  bright, 

And  shaken  earth's  stains  from  its  wings. 

"  Morning  CuuoNicLE."  1827. 


THE   EN1>. 


POPULAR  WORKS, 

Secently  Printed  by  J.  &  J.  HARPER,  No.  Si  Cliff  Street,  New-York; 

For  Sale  by  the 

prikcifal  booesbllers  in  ths  united  states. 


PELHAM;  or,  the  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLE- 
MAN. A  Novel.  In  2  vols.  12mo.  [By  the  Author  of  "  The 
Disowned."]     Se/:o>id  Edition. 

"  If  the  most  brilliant  wit,  a  narrative  whose  interest  never  flags,  and  some 
pictures  ot'  the  most  riveiiiig  interest,  can  make  a  work  popular,  '  I'elliam' 
will  be  as  first  rate  iu  celebtily  as  it  is  in  excellence.  The  scenes  are  laid  at 
the  present  day,  and  iu  I'asliioiiable  hie;" — London  Literary  Gazette. 

"  The  author,  whoever  he  is,  may  justly  pride  liimself  upon  a  performance 
fuI»or  amusing  scenes,  seasoned  by  frequent  Hashes  of  sterling  wit  and  genuine 
humour,  and  remarkable  for  a  polish  and  clt^;ance  of  style  that  well  bears  out 
the  word  gentleman  affixed  to  the  titleoi  the  \Mok."—La>tiloii  IVcehly  Review. 

"  The  work  of  a  master— we  know  not  hia  name,  but  whoever  he  may 

be,  we  offer  hun  our  warmest  admiration.  With  wit,  with  classical  lore, 
with  a  keen  eye  for  penetrating  passion  in  .ill  its  varieties— with  genius,  and 
taste,  and  good  sense,  he  is  one  ot  the  few  who  deserve  rare  praise  in  propor- 
tion to  the  variety  of  their  appearance.  In  the  whole  ranu£  of  TUB 
Waverley  Novels,  there  is  .not  o.ne  to  be  co.iirARED  to  Pelham." 

J\i'.  i'.  Courier. 

"  Seldom  have  we  risen  from  the  perusal  of  any  novel,  romance,  or  memoir, 
v.'ith  such  vivid  emotions  of  gratified  curiosity  and  delight  as  from  that  of 
I'elham.  For  masterly  and  graphic  delineation  oi'  human  chaiacter  in  all 
its  phases,  for  picturesque  gioupiiig  of  individuals,  as  collected  in  society,  for 
engrossing  interest  of  incident  and  l^rilllng  exhibition  of  passion,  for  skilful 
devcloperaent  of  plot,  spirited  and  natural  dialogue,  anil,  finally,  for  philo- 
sophical acumen  and  practical  morality,  this  novel  stands  lnrivalled  iv 
THE  present  day.  To  point  outinstiiuces  of  excellence  would  be  an  endless 
task— tliey  will  force  themselves  on  the  observation  of  every  unbiassed  mind. 
Were  we  inclined  to  select  passages  as  more  particularly  evincing  tlie  superior 
powers  of  the  writer,  we  should  quote  half  of  the  book." 

JV.  V.  Mirror  ^  Ladies'  Lit.  Gazette. 

THE  DISOWNED.  By  the  Author  of  "Pelham."  A 
Novel.     In  2  vols.  12ino.     Hccoiid  Edition. 

"  If  Pelham  justly  raised  for  its  author  a  very  high  character,  The  Disoaned 
will  raise  it  far  higher." — Lon4on  Literary  Gazette. 

"  The  great  success  of  Pelham,  and  the  high  reputation  it  has  acquired  for 
its  author,  increased  our  curiosity  to  peruse  its  successor.  We  have  examined 
The  Disowned,  and  fijid  it  fully  equal  in  plot,  ch:iracler,  and  description  to 
Pdhiim;  and  vastly  nine  philosophic  and  reflecting.  It  is  by  far  the  most 
intellectual  fiction  that  we  have  seen  for  a  long  time ;  aud  in  it  may  be  loniid 
some  of  the  finest  maxims,  and  f  oin  it  may  be  drawn  some  ot  the  best 
morals,  for  the  guidance  of  the  human  heart."— j?/*iort. 

"The  Journals  throughout  this  country  and  in  Encland  have  perhaps 
spoken  more  in  praise  of  'Pelham'  than  of  any  other  novel  that  has  issued 
from  the  prcsfi  in  modern  days— but  all  that  lias  been  said  in  coinmeridulion 
of  tlial  work,  and  much  more  in  our  opinion,  may  be  rcpeau-d  ol  'The 
Disowned.'  The  author  certainly  possewsfw,  to  a  surprising  degree,  boldne.w, 
eneriiy  of  genius,  originality,  and' shrewdness  of  olwrvation.  '  Pelham'  and 
'The  Uiiowned'  are  not  inVerior  to  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels."— C  '/Vmc.r 


Popular  Works  Recmlly  Printed. 

DOMESTIC  DUTIES  ;  or,  Instructions  to  Young  Married 
Ladies,  on  tlic  Management  of  their  Household,  and  the  Regu- 
lation of  their  Conduct  in  the  various  relations  .and  duties  of 
Married  Life.  By  Mrs.  William  I'arkes.— Fifth  American  from 
the  last  London  Edition,  with  Notes  and  Alterations  adapted 
to  the  American  Reader.     In  1  vol.  12rao, 

This  work  lias  received  tlie  approbaiioii  of  tlic  principal  literary  publica- 
tions in  Great  Btitaiu  and  iu  the  United  States.— The  follovviii;!  aiebut  a  few 
of  (he  expressions  in  its  favour: — 

"  The  volume  before  us  is  one  of  those  practical  works,  which  are  of  real 
value  and  utility  It  is  a  perfect  vade  mccum  for  the  young  manii'd  lady, 
who  may  resort  to  it  on  all  questions  of  household  economy  and  etiquette.. . 
There  is  nothing  omitted  witli  which  it  behooves  a  lady  to  be  acquainted." 

JVeiB  Monthly  Magaiine  of  London. 

"  We  have  not  space  to  notice  this  work  as  it  deserves.  We  cannot,  how- 
ever, allow  the  present  opportunity  to  pass  without  strongly  recommending  it 
to  the  attention  of  the  general  reader,  and  to  the  housekeeper  in  particular. 
It  would  be  a  useful  as  well  as  elegant  holyday  present — woitii  all  tue  uiinual 
gifts  ever  published."— .AT.  y.  Mirror  <S-  Ladtcn'  Ut.  Uazette. 

"  We  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that  the  most  fastidious  and  perfect  mind  can 
find  nothing  in  this  book  from  which  to  dissent.  It  is  an  admirable  condensa- 
tion of  the  physical  and  intellectual  duties  of  women ;  and  we  willingly 
lecommend  it  to  all  young  lii<lies,  inurriod  or  not."  —JSnstun  Statesman. 

"This  work  appears  to  be  particularly  calculated  to  arrest  the  attention  of 
those  young  marneri  ladies  who  wish  to  shine  iu  the  domestic  circle." 

Com.  Advertiser. 

"  Were  the  sentiments  this  book  inculcates  but  understood  and  practised  by 
our  ladies,  it  would  be  of  more  real  advantage  to  them  than  all  the  fine  theories 
to  be  deduced  from  the  collective  wisdom  of  all  the  novels  since  the  days  of 
chivalry.  Domestic  Duties  !  The  book  verifies  the  title— it  is  an  explanation 
and  enforcement  of  the  duties  incumbent  more  especially  on  married  ladies,  as 
to  them,  in  a  peculiar  manner,  are  committed  those  arrangements,  on  which 
the  domestic  happiness  of  families  must  dt^iend.  It  contains  many  subjects 
necessary  to  be  considered  by  all  ladies  who  are  ambitious  of  deserving  the 
eulogy,  more  to  be  coveted  by  a  married  woman  tlian  the  loudest  psean  from 
the  trump  of  fame,  "  Her  children  arise  up  and  call  her  bles.sed  ;  her  husband 
also,  and  he  praiseth  het."— Ladies'  Magazine  [Boston].    By  Mrs.  Hale. 

"We  consider  '  Domestic  Duties'  a  very  viiliiablework,  and  well  calculated 
to  promote  the  object  for  which  it  was  intended.  It  is  one  that  we  most  cheer- 
fully recommend  to  all  young  housewives,  and  to  all  who  intend  becoming  so. 
There  are  a  very  few  whose  education  has  been  so  complete  as  thai  they  will 
not  find  much  both  novel  and  useful  in  this  volume,  written  in  a  clear  and 
agreeable  style,  and  luminously  arranged.  It  ought  to  occupy  a  place  in  every 
lady's  library." —  The  Critic. 

"  Among  the  many  intellectual  treats  which  have  recently  been  spread  be- 
fore the  public,  there  has  been  none  combining  so  many  useful  lessons  as  the 
present  work  contains.  It  is  the  ladies'  Fade  Mtr.iim,  in  which  every  depart- 
ment of  domestic  duties,  of  manners,  temper,  accomplishmonts,  deportment, 
the  culinary  art,  visiting,  drees,  treatment  of  children,  &c.  &c.  are  embodied 
in  tlie  most  pleasing  manner,  and  ia  the  most  familiar  style." 

J\rewYork  Enquirer. 

"  This  book  contains  an  amount  of  useful  and  interesting  information  rarely 
Jo  be  met  with.,. It  ought  to  be  included  in  the  marriage  portion  of  every  lady." 

Chronicle  of  the  Times. 


m    >• 


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